


At The Crossroads

by Gimlisonofgloin



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:25:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gimlisonofgloin/pseuds/Gimlisonofgloin
Summary: Joan Watson must join forces with Moriarty to track down Sherlock Holmes, who has been missing for months.





	1. Chapter One

                She’d never wanted to be on this side of the law. It just sort of happened. One day she and Sherlock had been running around New York, solving crimes and saving lives, and the next thing she knew, he was gone, and she was left to pick up the shattered pieces of the life they’d had together.

                She hadn’t meant to join forces with Moriarty. But when Sherlock had disappeared, Captain Gregson had spared all the resources he could to help Joan track him down. Eventually his patience had run out. No matter how much he’d relied on Sherlock in the past, Joan and Detective Bell were just as effective as Sherlock had ever been, minus the drug problems. Joan had insisted she couldn’t work as well without Sherlock, but even Bell had tried to change her mind. After three months with no sign of Sherlock, she’d been forced to leave the department and pursue the case on her own.

                When she’d first met Sherlock, she’d been taken aback by his crazily intricate—and no doubt obsessive—case boards that he’d set up over his fireplace. Her case board had taken over the entire room, and was bleeding into the kitchen too.

                Contacting Moriarty had been an act of desperation, of course. When even Alfredo had had no more assistance to provide her, no more trails for her to follow, she’d realized the only person who could help her was the one person who knew Sherlock almost as well as she did. The fact that the two of them had never really seen eye to eye, to put it mildly, was indicative of just how desperate Joan had become.

                She’d had to pull quite a few strings to see her. She’d burned a few bridges in the process, but by then it had been almost five months since there had been any word of Sherlock at all. The world had cruelly continued on around her. The spring had given way to the muggy summer. The cars and the people moved slower, a shimmering heat creating mirages where there were none. Everyone in her life—Marcus, Captain Gregson, Alfredo, even Kitty—told her to move on. She didn’t understand how they could so easily pick up the threads of their old lives and continue on as if nothing had changed, as if everything was the same as it’d always been. They might have been able to give up on Sherlock, to so quickly write him off and all the progress he’d made over the past five years— _don’t worry Joan_ , they’d told her, _it’s not your fault, it was Oscar’s, Sherlock never really recovered from using again_ —but the spaces between their words were like knives to her heart. What they couldn’t bring themselves to say aloud was that they were just fine with assuming that Sherlock had OD’d and was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

                Their apathy, their lack of caring, was evidence enough for her. She knew they had never cared about Sherlock, not really. They had admired his intellect and appreciated what he’d been able to do for each of them. But when push came to shove, searching for Sherlock was an inconvenience. They weren’t really willing to uproot their lives for him, not like she and Moriarty were.

                For Gregson, Sherlock had been a brain child who had helped him close more cases than anyone else in the department. Because Sherlock hadn’t officially been on the payroll, all the credit had gone to Gregson. His shows of humility at the time had been an act. At the end of the day, Bell had learned so much from Sherlock that he was almost as effective as Sherlock had been, even if it just took him a little longer to solve their cases. Losing the British detective was just par for the course to Gregson. He had always known it could end this way.

                For Bell, Sherlock had been a catalyst. When Marcus had been shot, Sherlock had undoubtedly hindered him in many ways, but after he’d healed, he was a better detective than he’d ever been before.  He’d learned so much from the older detective, but their friendship had never really recovered after he’d been shot. A part of him still blamed Sherlock, and no amount of time would ever fully heal the rift. With Sherlock out of the picture, Bell could truly shine and prove himself to Gregson. A promotion was sure to be in his future.

                For Alfredo, Sherlock had helped him just as much as Alfredo had ever helped him. Sure, his association with the detective had gotten him kidnapped, but Sherlock had still improved his life in innumerable ways. He’d helped Alfredo land a cushy job testing cars’ security systems, for one thing. But even his friendship with Sherlock could be overlooked now. Alfredo had been his sponsor first and foremost. He’d always suspected that Sherlock might relapse one day. And after he had, was it any great leap to imagine him completely spiraling out of control again? He knew as well as anyone how much damage even one small setback could have.

                Kitty had probably benefitted more from Sherlock than the rest of them put together. He’d helped her heal old wounds and close a chapter in her life that should never have been written. He’d been like a brother to her, or a father figure. He’d loved her when she’d felt incapable of love. But that wasn’t the saddest thing of all. The skills she’d picked up from Sherlock had allowed her to enact revenge on her rapist, and even though she’d been forced to flee the country, she’d always known the U.S.  wouldn’t be her permanent home. Now, living out her days in Switzerland, she solved crimes and never thought of Sherlock beyond an occasional kind thought. The news of him going missing had only shaken her momentarily, and certainly not enough to push her new life off-kilter.

                Despite everything Sherlock had done for all of them, they were so quick to dismiss him. He had served his purpose for them. They weren’t rejoicing at the fact that he was gone, but they also weren’t willing to truly commit themselves to finding him. Not like she, and now Moriarty, were.

                 When she’d first sat across from Moriarty—she wouldn’t call her Irene, that had never _really_ been her name—in the cold, small interrogation room, Moriarty hadn’t been able to keep herself from smirking. “I always knew you’d end up here,” she’d murmured silkily through the corner of her mouth. “Everyone always comes back to me eventually.”

                Joan had had to force herself to stay seated. “Where is he, Moriarty?”

                “Oh, Joan. You know better. It’s no fun to just rush into things. You know that’s not how I do business.”

                Another smirk, a quick flashback to Andrew choking on the poison meant to stop her heart.

                “I didn’t come here for your games. Tell me where he is.”

                “Please, Joan. My name is Irene.”

                “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Where is he?”

                “It must be so difficult for you. Realizing you’ve failed him. Do you think it would’ve taken _him_ this long to find you if you’d gone missing?”

                “He was always the better detective.”

                “Don’t be humble, Joan. It isn’t needed. We women have to claim credit for our accomplishments. No, you were just as good a detective as he was. Maybe even better.”

                “Do you know where he is or not?”

                “Your continued use of the present tense is intriguing.” She leaned forward, looking like a cat ready to pounce. “But what makes you think I know anything about it?”

                Joan was quickly losing patience. “It’s almost like you don’t care at all,” she said testily, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. “Don’t you miss him? I’m sure he’s the only one who ever bothered to write to you.”

                She hadn’t meant to be cruel. For the briefest moment, Moriarty’s face fell. But within seconds, her mask was firmly back in place. “I don’t know where he is. My contacts haven’t been able to find out anything useful. It’s been…quite irritating, actually.”

                “I’m wasting my time here.” Joan stood to go.

                “We can help each other, you know.”

                Many months later those words would haunt Joan. But at the time, it was the first and only lifeline she’d been thrown since Sherlock had first disappeared. She didn’t approve of Moriarty or what she’d done to her and to Sherlock, but it was better to keep your enemies close, right?

                Joan drew in a deep breath and looked down at Moriarty. The blonde woman gazed at her expectantly. Joan knew before the words left her lips that she was signing a pact with the devil. But what other choice did she have?

                “How?”

                Moriarty smiled.

…


	2. Chapter Two

                Getting out was the easy part. It was what to do next that gave the women pause.

                “What now, Joan?”

                “I don’t even want to know why that was so simple.”

                “No, you really don’t.”

                Joan clenched her fists in the darkness, her fingernails pressing sharply into her palms. The shadowy night might be providing them with cover, but it also contained more questions than answers. She hadn’t thought this through.

                She cursed herself. She cursed Gregson, Bell, Alfredo, Kitty, and everyone else who’d forced her into this situation. Moriarty was testing her, she knew. She’d given Joan a small glimpse of the incredible power she still wielded. It’d been far too easy to break her out. A bribe here, a missed shift there, and Moriarty had simply walked out of jail, smirking all the while.

                _If it was so easy_ , Joan couldn’t help but think to herself, _then why hadn’t she left sooner? What had she been waiting for?_

 _Or_ who _?_

“It really is quite fascinating how slowly you normal people think,” Moriarty drawled, “But unless you want us _both_ to get caught, we should probably get moving, don’t you think?”

                Joan could tell Moriarty was nervous, despite her efforts at nonchalance. “Normal?” Joan laughed. “Then how’d I manage to trick you?”

                She was stalling. Where could they go? What stone hadn’t she already overturned in her search for Sherlock? What could Moriarty possibly know? _I have resources that you don’t_ , she’d told Joan back in her cell. _Let me show you_.

                And then she’d proceeded to break herself out of prison. Joan mentally kicked herself. How much time would she get for aiding and abetting a fugitive?

                Moriarty laughed brightly, too loudly in the creeping darkness. “Is your ego really so easily wounded, Joan? How pedestrian of you.” Moriarty turned her back to Joan and began walking away. “And boring,” she called over her shoulder.

                Joan rolled her eyes and jogged to catch up with her. “Why don’t you use your ‘resources’ and get us out of here?”

                “Contrary to what you may think, Joan, that’s not how my resources work. They allow me leverage, yes, but mainly they provide me with _knowledge_. I’ll spare you the prosaic colloquialism of knowledge being power.”

                “Modesty doesn’t suit you, Moriarty. Sherlock and I have seen firsthand what you and your resources are capable of. Now’s no time to be humble.”

                Joan hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. She had no idea where she could go with Moriarty, who was easily one of the most dangerous criminals in New York, let alone the world. She couldn’t exactly just waltz around the city with her. They needed to hide somewhere, preferably someplace off the grid. But where could they possibly go?

                “Sometimes you surprise me, Joan.”

                She turned to look at the blonde woman. She was staring at her quizzically, as if she were a puzzle she didn’t have all the pieces for. “I’m not evil, you know. I’m not as bad as your imagination would have you believe.”

                Joan looked back at her unflinchingly. “No. What scares me is that you’re much, much worse.”

                Moriarty gave a half-nod but remained silent.

                “Joan!”

                The women turned in unison. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Moriarty tense. Her hand instinctively reached toward her left sleeve. Joan cursed herself again. Of _course_ Moriarty wouldn’t be unarmed. She would never be so foolish.

                A figure stepped slowly forward from the darkness.

                “Alfredo! What are you doing here?”

                “I could ask you the same thing, Joan.”

                “ _Alfredo_ ,” Moriarty practically purred. “You’re Sherlock’s friend, right? The one who likes cars? Oh, he’s told me so much about _you_.”

                “I’m not here for you, _Irene_ ,” Alfredo said calmly, but with an unmistakable firmness to his voice. “Or whoever you really are. I’m not even really here for you, Joan.” He turned to her, his expression sad. “I swore off helping you a long time ago. But something’s happened. Your apartment—it’s gone.”

                “Gone? I don’t understand.”

                “Someone burned it down. I’m sorry, Joan. There’s nothing left.”

                “What?” Joan’s mind was reeling. “How—what happened?”

                “I don’t know. I came as soon as I could.” Alfredo looked at Moriarty suspiciously. He leaned toward Joan and whispered, “I had a hard time tracking you down. I thought you’d given up on this, Joan! You _promised_.”

                “So did you.”

                “That was before—”     

                “Before what? Before it got hard?”

                “Joan—”

                “You may not care about him. But _we_ do.” Joan indicated herself and Moriarty. _She has the audacity to look pleased_ , Joan thought sourly.

                Alfredo held up his hands in defeat. “I didn’t come here for a fight.”

                “Then go. You fulfilled any debt to me long ago, Alfredo. Thank you for telling me.” She turned away from him.

                “I can still help you. Joan—you know you can’t trust her.”

                “Oh, Alfredo,” Moriarty smiled, the humor not quite meeting her eyes. “She doesn’t have to trust me.”

                “I hate to agree with her, but she’s right.” Joan turned to face him again. “You, Gregson, Bell—you’re the reason I had to go to her in the first place. You have no right to judge me. It’s not your fault, I know. You got scared. Of what might have happened to him.” She paused, searching his face. “He might be dead, Alfredo. I’m as scared of that as you all are. But I _need_ to know. I can’t just stop. Even if I don’t like what I find.”

                Alfredo looked at her for a moment in silence. “I meant what I said, you know. I can still help.”

                “Then take me there. To the apartment. I have to see it.”

                “Us,” Moriarty interjected.

                “ _Us_.” The word left a bitterness in her mouth.

…

                Alfredo had never been one to exaggerate, and this time was no different. What had once been a beautiful brown apartment building with a welcoming stoop was now nothing more than a pile of bricks. Smoke still hung in the air, making it thick and heavy. Pieces of paper fluttered in the hot breeze. The waves of heat rolling off the wreckage were almost unbearable, even though the sun’s rays were only just cresting the horizon.

                Joan stepped forward involuntarily, drawn to the rubble, wondering if any of her meticulous research, if any of Sherlock’s old books, his papers—if anything at all had survived the flames. A fireman moved to block her path, but an almost imperceptible exchange passed between him and Moriarty, and the next thing she knew, he had walked away.

                “What just happened?” Alfredo asked, his voice heavy with skepticism.

                Joan looked at Moriarty incredulously. The latter shrugged. “You don’t want to know, remember?”

                Joan sighed but walked under the police tape that Moriarty was holding up for her and Alfredo. It was better if she didn’t ask questions. The less she knew, the better.

                If the outside had been depressing, the inside was much worse. The campfire smell was overwhelming. Joan stifled a cough. She picked her way among the piles as gracefully as she could, but she couldn’t avoid stumbling and catching her feet on loose stones and pieces of what had once been her and Sherlock’s furniture. 

                “This is terrible,” Moriarty muttered, half to herself. She occasionally bent down and picked up one of the random pieces of half-charred paper that was lying around, but she put each one down again in disinterest.

                “Joan, I found something!” Alfredo was calling excitedly from the middle of what had once been the main room where Sherlock and Joan had conducted their late-night research sessions. Joan went over to him as quickly as she could, but Moriarty still beat her there. In Alfredo’s hands was a small brown turtle. It looked quite put-upon, but appeared otherwise to be unharmed.

                “Clyde!”

                Joan gingerly took the animal from Alfredo. At least _something_ had survived. She carefully stroked Clyde’s head, almost absentmindedly. If Clyde had made it, what else might she be able to salvage from the wreckage?

                “All that fuss for a turtle?” Moriarty sounded disgusted.

                “What’s wrong with Clyde?” Joan would _always_ defend the happy little guy. She and Sherlock loved him dearly.

                “Reptiles.” Moriarty almost shivered. “Never saw the point of them.”

                _Interesting_ , thought Joan to herself. _There must be a story there_. She shrugged and continued picking her way through the piles of her and Sherlock’s broken belongings.

                She almost didn’t spot it at first. There, among the rubble of what had once been the main entryway, was the smashed up bust of Angus. Joan’s breath caught in her throat. For some reason, it wasn’t discovering Clyde or seeing her beloved home destroyed that got to her, but the sight of those broken white shards smashed into the floor. Her chest clenched and her eyes stung. Angus’ broken head was like a terrible metaphor for Sherlock and his brilliant mind, broken down by drugs and—

 _No_. This wasn’t how this was going to end. Joan patted Clyde, attempting to reassure herself. She refused to give up. Whether the end of her search led to Sherlock’s cold body—or her own—she was going to see this through. She _would_ find him. She had to. Doing nothing would drive her crazy…or crazier than she’d already become after months of desperate searching and continual disappointments and setbacks.

 _I’ll rise_ _above this_ , she thought to herself. _Like a phoenix_. Another bad metaphor, but Joan smiled anyway. Sherlock would’ve rolled his eyes in exasperation, but that was as good as a smile from him anyway.

                She could do this. She’d saved Sherlock multiple times before. This was no different. Unlikely allies—she glanced sideways at Moriarty, who was picking her way among the debris carefully, always so cat-like in her quiet, precise movements—were better than none at all. They were going to find him. They were going to—

                “Joan.”

                Moriarty’s face was pale. Joan felt her stomach drop to her feet.

                “Jamie, what is it?”

                Moriarty had no visible reaction to being called by her first name. She simply handed the slightly charred paper she’d picked up to Joan without a word. Alfredo made his way over to them, leaning over Joan’s shoulder so he could read the note too.

                In neat, looping letters, blood red words spelled out:

_Do I have your attention now, Joan Watson? I have your precious detective. Come and get him._

_..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day, everyone! :) Enjoy!


	3. Chapter Three

               That was it.

               “What the—?” Joan tossed the paper aside. “ _Anyone_ could see that that’s a fake ransom note.” She sighed, exasperated, and raked her fingers through her hair. “We’re back to square one.”

               “Maybe not.” Moriarty picked the note up. “It might have a message of some kind.”

               “Message? It’s a fake, Moriarty.”

               “You really must stop calling me that, _Watson_.”

               Joan stared at her unblinkingly.

               “ _Fine_.” She held out the note to Joan. “The first and last sentences, they begin with ‘D’ and ‘C’. It’s crude, but I think it’s a clue.”

               Alfredo looked skeptical, and Joan had to keep herself from laughing out loud. “You think he’s in DC? Because of a fake note? Anyone could’ve figured that out.”

               “Even so. Maybe whoever has Sherlock wants him to be found.”

               “It’s been _months_. Why now?”

               “Who knows?”

               Joan could tell Moriarty was losing her patience. _Good_ , she thought. _I’ve been losing it for half a year. It’s someone else’s turn now._

               “You let her _in_ there?”

               Joan nearly sprained her neck from swiveling it around so quickly. She’d recognize Captain Gregson’s gruff voice anywhere. He sounded pissed. And how’s he going to feel when he sees you here with Moriarty?

               They had to get out, and fast.

               “I don’t _care_ what she said to you,” she could hear the Captain yelling, “The place is practically still burning!”

               “Alfredo,” Joan hissed, “You still want to help me? Get us out of here. _Now_.”

…

               This pattern was becoming all too familiar to Joan. The past three days had consisted of nothing more than troubled sleep and a string of dingy motel rooms. Even though it was only about a four-hour drive from New York to D.C., Moriarty had insisted that it was too dangerous—and too _obvious_ , which Joan was beginning to suspect was her favorite word—for them to travel there directly. She’d claimed she had too many enemies, too many people watching her, for it to be safe for either of them.

               Joan had wanted to argue, but Alfredo had pulled her aside and tried to convince her otherwise.

               “Look Joan—you know that the Captain, Kitty, and the rest of us are sorry we couldn’t help you more. You do know that, right?”

               Joan just stared at him blankly.

               Alfredo sighed. “I’m used to stubborn people, you know. There’s no way you could ever be more stubborn than Sherlock.

               “But look, it’s fine. I get it. You want to blame us because it’s easier to blame someone than be sad. So you go right ahead. You do what you need to do. You already know how I feel about Irene over there—”      

               “Her name is Moriarty.”

               “What’d I say about being stubborn? Pick your battles, Joan.”

               She remained silent but nodded for him to continue.

               “I’ve already warned you that you can’t trust her, but I know you’re going to use her ‘resources’ or whatever no matter what I say. And I can’t say I really blame you. I know you think we’ve abandoned you, that we’ve given up. And maybe we have, in a way.

               “The endless searching, the dead ends, the sleepless nights—it takes its toll, Joan. We can’t pay the price anymore. We’ve moved on as best as we can because we feel like we have to. Obsession is a dangerous game, Joan. Don’t forget that.

               “I know most of this is falling on deaf ears. I know you’re going to do what you feel you have to no matter what I or anyone else says. I respect that, even if I don’t agree with it. We’re all worried about you, you know. We want you to be safe. We won’t try to stop you. I’m not sure we could even if our hearts were really in it.

               “But just—watch your six, okay? Irene can’t be trusted. She’s up to something, I’m sure of it. When has anything ever been straightforward with her? I know you’re capable of protecting yourself, but I just want you to be careful. Promise me you’ll watch your back out there?”

               Joan sighed, but nodded. “Sherlock taught me well, Alfredo. I’ll be okay.”

               “Maybe so. But just remember that even Sherlock’s training hasn’t been able to help him in the past four months.”

               “Five.” _But who’s counting_ , she thought bitterly to herself.

               Alfredo momentarily hung his head in defeat. “Of course. Five. I’m sorry, Joan.”

               He sounded like he meant it. But Joan knew better. He might think he did, but if he _really_ did—if any of them really did—they would still be helping her, not wasting her time lecturing her about watching out for herself as if she were a child.

               “Are you two lovebirds done quarreling over there?”

               Joan shot Moriarty a withering look. She was right though, in a sense. This conversation had dragged on for too long.

               “Please, Joan!” Moriarty laughed lightly. “I was only kidding, of course. But we really should be going soon.”

               There it was again, the almost imperceptible slipping of her mask. Alfredo was right about one thing. Moriarty was definitely up to something. She had been nervous and on edge ever since they’d left the jail.

               “It’s fine, Irene. I just wanted to say one more thing.” Alfredo turned to face Joan again. He continued quietly, “I know this is going to sound weird, but I would do what Irene says. At least for now.”

               Joan looked at him incredulously. “I thought you just said I shouldn’t trust her.”

               “You _know_ you can’t. But I also think she needs you for something. Whatever she’s up to, I don’t think she wants to hurt you. So if she’s telling you to keep a low profile, I think you should.”

               “So…you’re telling me to follow the orders of a psychopathic serial killer?”

               “You’re the one who went to her for help, Joan.”

               Joan sighed in exasperation. She was irritated, but Alfredo’s words rang true. She hadn’t come this far and sacrificed so much to get caught in the crossfire. Moriarty was probably being hunted by one of the no doubt countless people who wanted her dead. But Joan was not about to let herself become collateral damage.

               “Okay, Alfredo. I think you’re right. I’ll do what she says, at least for now.”

               Alfredo nodded, a brief smile tugging at his lips. “Take care of yourself, Joan. Good luck.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liiiive!


	4. Chapter Four

               The dizzying route she and Moriarty had taken over the past several days was almost serpent-like in nature. They had slowly snaked their way closer and closer to D.C., and while Joan was trying to be patient and understanding of the necessity for caution, she was growing impatient. She had no clue what to expect once they did reach the capital. She’d been to D.C. multiple times before; it wasn’t a small city. How would they know where to look once they reached it?

               She hated that she was beginning to think of herself and Moriarty as a ‘we’. They were a team now, whether Joan wanted them to be or not. They were dependent on one another. And Joan was discovering that she had more in common with Moriarty than she would’ve ever thought possible. They both loved classical music and had a sincere appreciation for art. Moriarty had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Joan had an aptitude for painting as well. While Moriarty enjoyed drawing human subjects, Joan leaned toward the abstract. Many hours of their time together were spent discussing the finer points of art history, especially when it came to Moriarty’s genuine interest in the preservation of classical art.

               “Sherlock told me that was your occupation when he first met you,” Joan said. “I’d just assumed you’d feigned an interest in art.”

               Moriarty laughed. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Joan. The best liars always tell half-truths. It’s much easier to keep the truth hidden when a part of it has been revealed.”

               “How can you be sure that people won’t discover the whole truth?”

               “Because people only see what they want to see, Joan. If you give them a small piece of the truth, they’ll take it at face value and assume they know everything. It’s in our nature.”

               Joan could hear a barbed edge to her words, but could only guess at their real meaning. There was more being communicated at present than she could possibly wrap her mind around.

               She decided to change the subject. “So…how much longer until we reach D.C.?”

               If she weren’t as skilled at hiding her real emotions, she knew Moriarty would’ve rolled her eyes. “As I’ve already told you several times before—”

               “ _We’ll get there when we get there?_ Come on, Moriarty. We’re supposed to be working together, right? The least you could do is give me an idea.”

               “Again, the less you know…the better.”

               Joan couldn’t help sighing in frustration. “We’ve been traveling for _three days_. It takes _hours_ to reach D.C. from New York. I know you have enemies—” Moriarty shot her a look “—But this is a little extreme, don’t you think? Even for you,” she couldn’t help adding under her breath.

               Moriarty didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she studied Joan for a moment, and then shrugged. “I have my reasons, Joan. That’s all you need to concern yourself with.” She could sense Joan was about to protest again, so she continued, “We’ll get into the city tomorrow. Then the game will really begin.”

               The _game_? Was that what this was to Moriarty? Games implied rules, and winners and losers. Games implied that the players knew they were playing, and that they had voluntarily signed up. Joan might have been desperate enough to go to Moriarty in the first place, but she certainly didn’t think of finding Sherlock as a _game_. Nothing had ever been as important to her. Nothing had ever mattered more.

               She sighed to herself. Alfredo was right, she knew. If Moriarty thought of this as game, she would just have to play along. At least until Moriarty slipped up. It might take a while, and Joan hated to think of Sherlock having to suffer even longer, but she had outsmarted Moriarty before, and she knew she could again.

…

               It was on their third week of useless meandering that Joan lost her patience for good. It had been one dingy motel room after another. They had crisscrossed back and forth over D.C. in no discernible pattern. Moriarty refused to let them stay in one place for longer than two or three days, and the constant packing and repacking was driving Joan up a wall. It was also Moriarty’s stanch refusal to actually answer any of her questions, or to let her in on the reasoning for their constant and erratic movements, that had Joan at her absolute wit’s end.

               They were no closer to finding Sherlock than they had been when they’d first set out on this ill-fated journey almost a month ago, and Joan was beginning to regret ever having sought out Moriarty in the first place. It didn’t help that all she did when they were in a motel room was pace back and forth like a caged animal. Joan knew she had a plan, or at least a vague sketch of one, but it was a shape she couldn’t fathom.

               “Moriarty,” she sighed in exasperation, “I can’t take this anymore.”

               Of course she kept pacing— _why would she stop? Why would_ anyone _stop constantly walking back and forth, wearing a hole in the carpet?_ —and if she’d heard Joan, she gave no indication.

               “Moriarty,” she repeated, louder this time.

               The pacing continued, and still there was no acknowledgment from the blonde woman that she had even spoken.

               “Jamie.”

               Finally, blessedly, she stopped pacing and turned to face Joan. “Hmm?” she murmured.

               “What are we doing here? It’s been weeks. Where is Sherlock?”

               “Damned if I know,” she said, and resumed pacing.

               “You _do_ know. You have to.”

               “Oh, Joan. Not this again.”

               “Yes, _this_ _again_. It’s been weeks, and you’ve been shuttling us all over the place, and you refuse to tell me _anything_. There has to be a reason for all of this.”

               “Of course there is,” she snapped.

               _Good, she was angry too._ That was something Joan could work with. “Well? Care to elaborate?”

               “How many times—”

               “ _Too_ many. You can’t keep stringing me along. My friend is missing and you said you could help me.”

               “I can.”

               “You call this _helping_?” she said, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. “I could’ve spent this past month actually _doing_ something. Instead, you’ve had me running back and forth, leading me on this wild goose chase, and for what? What have we _actually_ discovered?”

               Moriarty remained silent.

               “We haven’t found anything, Moriarty. We’re no closer to finding him than we were before.”

               “Don’t you think I know that?”

               “We should’ve never left New York. He’s not here. Just admit it.”

               “The note clearly indicated—”

               “The note—? You can’t honestly expect me to still believe you about that. _No_. We need to go back to the brownstone, see what clues we missed.”

               “We didn’t miss anything, Joan.”

               “You don’t _know_ that! We were rushed out of there by Captain Gregson.”

               “Joan. We didn’t miss anything.”

               “We must have!” She was angry at herself for the tears stinging her eyes. She had held it together so well, but this was her limit. She had been stuck with Moriarty, the person who had betrayed and hurt one of the people she was closest to, for too long. She was still no closer to finding Sherlock, and it had been almost half a year. She didn’t want to admit it to herself, but the flame of hope she’d been stoking so carefully, even after everyone around her had slowly given up, was beginning to dim.

               She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. She was going to crack. She was going to let Sherlock down, even more than she already had. Moriarty’s words from weeks ago came drifting back to her, as they had so many times since— _Do you think it would’ve taken_ him _this long to find you if_ you’d _gone missing?_

               “I promise you that we didn’t.” Moriarty was speaking gently, which somehow made Joan even angrier.

               “You don’t even care,” she said slowly. “About anything, but especially not about him.”

               “I don’t think I need to tell you that that isn’t true, Joan.”

               “Really? Then _do_ something. Need I remind you that he’s your _only_ friend?”

               Moriarty actually looked hurt for a split second, or maybe it was the flickering, worn-out motel room lights playing tricks on her. “No,” she said after a moment’s pause. “You certainly don’t.”

               She contemplated Joan for a moment. She gazed back unblinkingly. Moriarty seemed on the verge of deciding something when there was a sharp knock on the door. The women turned in unison at the unexpected sound.

               “Who the hell is that?” Joan hissed. “This is the third motel we’ve been to this _week_. How could anyone have found us?”

               Moriarty said nothing. She stood and began slowly walking to the door. Before she had made it halfway across the room, a piece of paper was shoved roughly under the door, and they could hear the sound of running footsteps receding down the hallway.

               Moriarty closed the distance between herself and the door as Joan leapt up. She ran over to the paper as Moriarty threw open the door.

               “Joan! Grab the note. He’s getting away!”

               She was barely out the door when Moriarty had reached the door to the stairwell. At this rate, she’d have to sprint to catch up with Moriarty and the mysterious person who’d left the note, so she decided to read the note instead.

               In neat red letters, in the same looping handwriting as before, were the words:

               _It’s time._

…


	5. Chapter Five

               Joan stopped walking.

_It’s time?_ What did that mean? Time for what?

               A growing sense of dread descended upon her. She knew that Moriarty had been jumpy and agitated the last few weeks, but why had she _immediately_ followed whoever had left the note? Whoever it was had been gone long before Joan could get a glimpse of him, but what about Moriarty? Had she _recognized_ him?

               More than ever, she felt out of her depth. Why had Moriarty followed the person who left the note without even reading it?

               Had she already known what it was going to say?

               Joan’s stomach sank. She didn’t know everything that was going on yet. It felt like she had a few puzzle pieces, but they didn’t fit together. Not yet, anyway. But she could tell she was getting closer to something. This note, Moriarty racing after the man who’d left it—it was the first exciting thing that had happened to them in weeks. It was the first clue she’d personally found in _months_ , if she were being honest with herself.

               Joan sighed and shook her head. She knew it was probably a terrible idea, but there was really no other option. She had to follow Moriarty. She needed to know where this all ended. Maybe this was all an elaborate scheme of some kind, and she was just a little mouse on a wheel, chasing after nothing. Even if that were the case, it was the first bread crumb she’d had in ages. She wasn’t about to pass it up now.    

…

               When she exited the motel, there was no sign of Moriarty and whoever she’d been pursuing. That didn’t surprise Joan, but she wasn’t sure which direction to go now. Almost as if on cue, her phone gave a faint chirping sound. She had a new text message—from an unknown number, of course—with what looked like coordinates.

               “Great,” Joan muttered to herself. “It’d be too much to ask for an actual street address, wouldn’t it?”

               As Joan followed her phone’s directions to the unknown location, she couldn’t help but notice that she was heading into an older, more abandoned part of town. Trash littered the sidewalks, and graffiti was sprayed on almost every available wall, layer upon layer of intermingling colors, letters, and shapes. The buildings were in varying stages of disrepair, as were the roads. Luckily there was no one else around, but Joan still walked quickly.

               Her phone indicated that she was two minutes away from her destination when she began to notice red drops on the ground. She could instinctually tell that they were blood. They were fresh, and she wondered if they were Moriarty’s.

_Probably not_ , she thought to herself. Moriarty was too careful to get hurt.

               After walking for almost twenty minutes, Joan finally arrived at the coordinates. It was a huge building, gray and crumbling and lifeless. There was more blood here. She could tell that there had been a struggle. Moriarty had caught up to the person she’d been chasing here, and by the looks of it, things had not gone well for him.

               The blood was like a red arrow, urging her forward. Joan wanted more than anything to turn around, to go back home to New York. But she didn’t have a home there anymore. It had been burned down. And she didn’t have Sherlock, either. She had come too far, and sacrificed too much, to turn back now. She was afraid she’d find a dead body as soon as she entered the building, but she couldn’t put off her confrontation with Moriarty. It was as if everything had been leading her to this one moment, to this one place. She felt balanced on the edge of a precipice, and she knew she had to jump. There was nothing for her back home, not anymore. It didn’t feel like home without Sherlock. And it wasn’t, she realized.

               She took a deep breath and crossed the parking lot, heading for the door directly in front of her. There was now a steady streak of blood, as if a body had been dragged. Joan repressed a shudder and kept walking forward. She had to finish this.

               When she reached the door, her hand hovered over the handle. It was shaking—which she understood in a detached, uninterested sort of way—because she was terrified. But she knew that finding Sherlock depended on her being stronger than her fear, so she gripped the handle and pulled.

…

               The doorknob turned easily in her hand. It creaked loudly as she pushed it open. The tangy smell of blood was immediately apparent. The trail ended here.

               Just as she had feared, the man’s body was crumpled unceremoniously to the left of the doorway. There was no sign of Moriarty, not that she had expected there to be. The lighting was very dim—Joan was shocked the building still had electricity at all—and for that, she was grateful. Almost against her better judgment, she kneeled down next to the man’s body. As she did so, she saw that there was a large pool of blood underneath the man— _too_ much. She resisted a shudder and sought his neck in the gloom.

               She could feel that it was broken. _There’s no point in trying to find a pulse now_ , she thought to herself as she stood slowly. She wanted nothing more than to turn back and leave. She entertained the idea for only the briefest moment: turning around, walking away, going back to a “normal” life again, somehow, minus Sherlock. Never finding out where he was or what had become of him. Abandoning him for good, like all their other friends had.

               Joan knew she couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just that the brownstone had been burned down, or that her long hiatus from the police department surely meant that her services were no longer needed. It was that Sherlock had become a part of almost every facet of her life. They were bound together. He had changed her, fundamentally. She was not as “normal” or “average” as she had once supposed, and now even less so. There was no going back.

               Even though she was scared and nervous about how this would all end, the desperation in Moriarty’s actions urged her forward. She was getting closer to the truth, and to Sherlock. She could feel it.

               Joan briefly surveyed the rest of the room. It looked to be a lobby of some kind; this had clearly once been an office building. There was no trail of blood to follow now, but she felt confident nonetheless.

               There were several doors in the room, but there was also an elevator. She walked over to it. Even with the flickering overhead lighting, she could just make out the faintest smudge of blood on the up arrow. She pushed it. _With any luck, the button for the floor Moriarty went to will be smudged too_.

               The elevator opened with a soft ding. It was much better lit than the rest of the lobby, and she was momentarily blinded. She stepped in and looked at the floor selection buttons. She was in luck—the button for floor 14 had a small, but still visible, smear of blood.

               It was the topmost floor, because _of course_ it was. Moriarty did have a flair for the dramatic, after all.

               Joan pushed the button. When the elevator reached the top, she braced herself for whatever was going to greet her on the other side. She was practically holding her breath in anticipation, but as the doors softly dinged open again, they revealed that there was no one around.

               She stepped off the elevator and strained to hear anything. It was too quiet.

               She grumbled in frustration. _Fine_. If she had to check every room on this floor, then so be it.

               As she was about to enter the first room on her left, she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.

               “Moriarty?” she called out tentatively.

               As soon as she spoke, she mentally kicked herself for trying to catch the attention of a murderer, especially when her last kill had been so recent. Still, it scared her that a part of her wanted to defensively shrug in response. She and Moriarty were in this together now, whether she liked it or not. It was far, far too late for backing out.

               Joan crossed the room cautiously. There were two large offices on the far wall, and for whatever reason, she was drawn to the one on the left. When she reached it, she breathed a sigh of relief as the door opened without issue.

               When she stepped into the room, she was hit with a faint scent of perfume. She was startled to recognize it as Moriarty’s. She hadn’t consciously noticed what perfume Moriarty wore, but she supposed they had spent enough time together that it was now ingrained in her memory. The thought made her deeply uncomfortable.

               There was a large desk in the corner of the room, but beyond that, there was nowhere for anyone to hide in here. Joan dutifully checked under the desk. She was unsurprised that the blonde woman was clearly no longer in the room. She checked the desk’s drawers, but they were all empty.

               She turned around to leave. On the wall behind the door, there was a huge canvas that she hadn’t noticed before. It was covered, almost reverently, with a thick, draping cloth. It was a deep, royal blue, and it was enormous.

               None of the other canvases in the room were covered. They were all boring, drab landscapes, the kind that were meant to be pleasing to the eye but also so generic that no one could possibly find them offensive.

               There was no way that that beautiful cloth was covering another landscape. Joan crossed the room and shut the door so that she could fully see the draped canvas. It truly was massive. She reached up on her tiptoes and gingerly lifted the covering off the painting, being careful not to disturb the frame itself.

               As the draping fell away, at first all she could see was the brown background. But as more of the covering was lifted off, her heart stuttered in her chest.

               It was _her_.

               The painting Moriarty had done all those years ago, when she had been in that charade of a prison—house arrest, really, with as many painting supplies as she had wanted—that painting was _here_.

               How the _hell_ had that painting found its way into this random office building? More important—whose office _was_ this?

               Joan backed away from the painting slowly. It had always unnerved her how much it looked like her. It wasn’t a testament to Moriarty’s skill; she couldn’t have been a forger if she weren’t the very best.

               But Joan wondered, not for the first time, if Moriarty had used a reference photo for the painting—which would be disturbing enough in its own right—or if she’d drawn Joan from memory. She didn’t know which would bother her more. Either way, to be _that_ much of a focus for a psychopathic killer…Joan shuddered.

               Moriarty had proudly displayed this painting back in her “prison cell”. She would never cover it. So if someone else had, what did _that_ mean? Was it a warning? Had the man Moriarty killed downstairs done this? If so, what was he warning Moriarty about?

               Joan backed farther away from the painting. She knew it was a clue of some kind, but she couldn’t figure it out. It was infuriating to be so close to a discovery of some kind, but to still be miles away.

               As if on cue, Moriarty floated into the room, smiling devilishly.

               “You found the painting too? Well done, Joan,” she drawled. “I suppose you have everything figured out now.”

               Joan wasn’t going to let on that she was completely lost. “Figured out what?” she asked as innocently as possible.

               Moriarty’s smirk widened, if possible. “Well that _I_ took Sherlock, of course.”

…


	6. Chapter Six

               “You WHAT?”

               Joan rarely got truly angry; she could count the number of times on one hand. But an ex cheating on her, a coworker almost sabotaging a surgery with his drinking habits, her mother disapproving of her one too many times despite all her accomplishments— _this_ took the cake.

               Moriarty had the audacity to look surprised. “You hadn’t figured it out?”

               Joan was too furious to speak.

               “I must say, Joan, that is rather disappointing. I expected more from you.”

               “Disa—?” Joan took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “Moriarty, explain. _Now_.”

               “Villains only give away their schemes in movies, you know.”

               “I don’t care.” She was shaking with fury.

               Moriarty cocked her head to the side. “Well, it’s true that only _you_ think of me as a villain. Did you know I’m considered a hero in some parts of the world?”

               “You’re a murderer. Of course you’re not a hero.”

               “Murder is par for the course in most of the world, Joan. It’s a part of life.” She paused, then continued, “After all, without it, you wouldn’t have a job.”

               “Had. _Had_. I have spent the past half year chasing down every possible lead to find Sherlock. Including wasting _weeks_ with you in D.C. And you… _you_ did this? You had him all along?”

               Moriarty nodded, but looked puzzled by Joan’s reaction.

               She shook her head. “How could you do this to him? I thought you loved him.”

               “Love?” Moriarty pondered it for a moment. “I suppose I loved him as much as I’m capable of loving anyone.”

               Her truthfulness calmed Joan down a little. She was still furious, but for some reason Moriarty seemed to be in an unusually open and honest mood. Joan knew she had to take advantage of it.

               “Why did you take Sherlock? And why get me involved at all?”

               “You came to me, remember?”

               Joan’s ire rose again. “But _you_ orchestrated this, didn’t you? Wasn’t this your plan all along? Play some stupid cat and mouse game for months to, what, get back at me for something?”

               “They took my daughter.”

               Joan remembered that Moriarty had a daughter; Sherlock had told her about it a while ago. She couldn’t help wondering how Moriarty could let this happen again, but she chased off the thought. Although she didn’t have children of her own, Joan knew there was no way she could judge Moriarty about this more than she’d already judged herself. She couldn’t imagine what the woman standing in front of her was going through—except she _could_ , in a way.

               “I know I’m supposed to ask who took your daughter, and we’ll get to that. But I want to know how could you hurt me in the same way they hurt you. How could you take Sherlock away from me when you _know_ what that pain feels like?”

               “Sherlock is not your child, Joan.”

               “No, but he is my friend. And you let me worry for _six months_ that he might be dead.”

               Moriarty studied her for a moment. “I needed your help, but I knew you would never help me of your own volition. I had to remove Sherlock from the equation, make you desperate enough to come to me.”

               “Why couldn’t you just ask _him_ for help?” Joan struggled to keep her voice level.

               “Because the people who took my daughter are drug traffickers.”

               Joan stared at her. “Drug traffickers—isn’t that a little _beneath_ you? I thought you were a more white collar criminal.”

               “You have to start somewhere.” Moriarty paused, then continued, “It’s why I couldn’t risk _him_ being there. After he overdosed again, I—”

               “So it’s the same old story, is it?” Joan interrupted. “You started out as a petty criminal, got into the drug trade, and then worked your way up to better cons.”

               “More or less.”

               “And now someone from your checkered past has come back and reared their ugly head?”

               Moriarty nodded. Joan hadn’t known what she’d expected, exactly, but to have the truth be this—cliché, almost?—was disappointing, to say the least. Two kidnappings, months of fruitless searching, weeks of running all over D.C., and for what? Some pissed off drug dealers with too much time on their hands? _They_ were the cause of this ridiculous domino effect?

               “You know,” she said slowly, “You still haven’t really explained why Sherlock and I had to be dragged into all of this.”

               “Isn’t it obvious?” Moriarty looked at her incredulously. “You and Sherlock are the only ones I can trust now.”

               “What do you mean?” Joan couldn’t help feeling a little badly for Moriarty, despite everything, because she knew _she_ would never trust Moriarty, even if her life depended on it.

               It didn’t improve Joan’s mood to think that it probably did.

               “My daughter’s caretakers betrayed me—for money, what else?—and after they were taken care of, I realized a reexamination of my network was crucial. It was too long overdue, as it turns out. There were weak spots everywhere. I didn’t know who I could turn to. In my line of business, it’s best to keep your enemies close. And it won’t surprise you to know that I don’t have many friends.”

               In lieu of a biting remark, Joan simply nodded.

               “My daughter’s guardians were some of the people I trusted must,” Moriarty continued. “But if _they_ had been compromised—”

               “—Others probably had been too.”

               “Precisely. It’s insidious, this whole _career_ of mine. You’re never safe. Not _really_. Every time you think you can relax, even for a second, something else happens.”

               Joan didn’t have much sympathy for Moriarty in this regard—she didn’t _have_ to be a crime lord, after all—but on some level, she could relate to what it was like to never be able to take a deep breath. Fighting crime and committing it—perhaps they weren’t so different, or opposite, as she had previously believed. Maybe she and Moriarty were two halves of the same coin, bound inextricably together by what they did, and by Sherlock. After all, hadn’t Joan discovered in the past few weeks that she and Moriarty had far more in common than she would’ve liked?

               The moment the thought entered her mind, the world exploded. The office windows shattered into millions of pieces, shards flying across the room. Joan ducked, trying to avoid the worst of it.

               Her ears were ringing. She scanned the ground desperately, trying to find whatever had broken the windows. She finally spotted them—two small smoke bombs, which had already begun slowly diffusing gas into the room. They hissed faintly and steadily. The air was becoming thicker by the moment. They had to get out of there.

               Joan turned to where Moriarty had been standing. She was still in the same exact spot; it seemed as if she hadn’t even attempted to duck. Even through the thickening haze, Joan could tell that she was pale. In fact, for the first time since Joan had known her, Moriarty looked afraid.

               That didn’t sit well with Joan—if Moriarty was scared, she knew she should be too.

               “Moriarty,” she choked, “We need to go.” It hurt to talk, and was even beginning to hurt to breathe. She made to move towards the door, but Moriarty held out her arm and stopped her.

               “It’s no use, Joan. They’re already here.”

               “That’s why we need to _leave_.”

               “You still don’t get it, do you?” Moriarty’s voice was quiet. “They’ve already infiltrated the building by now. They knew what floor we were on, Joan. It’s over.”

               She had never heard Moriarty sound so defeated. “We can’t just give up! We need to find your _daughter_ , Jamie.”

               She’d hoped using Moriarty’s name would goad her into action, snap her out of her stupor, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Moriarty smiled, though Joan wished she hadn’t. It was a manic smile, the smile of someone with nothing left to hope for, and therefore nothing left to lose.

               “We will,” Moriarty managed to choke out, as the smoke completely filled the room.

               Joan heard the sound of several heavy footsteps; she’d guess at least four or five people were heading their way.

               Even through the haze and chaos, Joan still managed to hear Moriarty say, “They’re going to lead us right to her.”

…


	7. Chapter Seven

               Joan awoke in darkness. It was so dark, the blackness so complete, that for several disorienting moments she couldn’t tell if her eyelids were even open. She strained for even the faintest sound, but aside from a distant hum and a dripping sound, it was eerily silent.

               She waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, but there was no light at all. There was no way for them to adjust. She tried to remember how she had gotten here, wherever _here_ was. The last thing she could recall was Moriarty’s ominous message. Then the smoke had knocked Joan out.

                She grumbled in frustration. Her mouth was parched, so she guessed it must have been several hours at least since they’d been taken. A quick assessment of her body for any aches or pains—or worse yet, anything broken—left her relieved. She felt a little sore, but other than that, she was unharmed.

               She was about to stand and try to feel her way around the room when the silence was broken by a blood-curdling scream. She instinctively knew that it was Moriarty. It wasn’t a scream of fear. It was a scream of pain.

               Whoever had her was torturing her. Moriarty had seemed convinced that the people who had taken them were the same people who’d kidnapped her daughter, but how could she be sure? Why would they take them, only to torture Moriarty? What did they want from her? Money?

               No—they had most likely spent a small fortune to buy off Moriarty’s daughter’s guardians in the first place. This was definitely something more personal. Joan’s heart sank. In her experience, people who were only out for revenge were much harder to negotiate and reason with. They would only be satisfied once they’d gotten their vengeance, and nothing short of that would appease them.

               Joan stood quickly and reached her arms out in front of her. She needed to figure out the dimensions of the room, see if there was anything she could use as a weapon. She needed to figure a way out of here, and fast. She still might not be Moriarty’s biggest fan, but she wasn’t about to sit idly by and let her be tortured.

               As Joan stumbled blindly around the room, she kept expecting her foot to catch on the edge of a table, a chair, _anything_. But there was nothing. The room had no furniture at all, and it wasn’t very large. There was only one door, and while it seemed to be the kind she could lockpick—probably even in the darkness, thanks to Sherlock’s irritating but methodical teachings—it would undoubtedly create too much noise, and she was wary of breaking out of the room without any kind of weapon. Just because the people who’d abducted them hadn’t harmed her yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t if she tried to escape.

               Joan raked her hand through her hair. Against her better judgment, she still wanted to break out of the room, but she knew she’d be doing more harm than good. She needed to be in top form if she wanted to be able to rescue herself and Moriarty. She would have to wait.

               As another blood-curdling scream broke the silence, Joan began pacing the room. It was awful to sit back and do nothing, but she didn’t have many other options. Although Sherlock had taught her combat skills, they were really only useful when fighting one or two attackers, not a slew of highly-trained people who had things like smoke bombs and detention centers where they could torture people.

               Joan realized again how in over her head she was. As she paced, she thought about what Sherlock might say if he were here with her. She knew he would tell her waiting was her best option. He would remind her that Moriarty was strong, and that she had most likely withstood torture before. Joan had to have faith in her right now. She had to believe that Moriarty was tough enough to ride this out.

               It seemed unlikely that their abductors would take them to this secure location only to kill them; they could’ve easily disposed of them back in the office building. No—the smoke bombs indicated that they’d wanted her and Moriarty alive. Their captors had knocked them out and transported them here for a reason. Joan hated having to rely on Moriarty’s fortitude, but if she wanted answers, she would have to be patient. It’d be of no use to Moriarty if she were killed trying to get them out.

…

               It was impossible to gauge how much time had passed. There was no light in the room—the door was flush with the floor—so it was difficult for her eyes to adjust to the blackness.

               She paced and paced.

               She did the squats she’d taught Sherlock all those years ago, the ones she’d done in med school to help keep her awake.

               There were intermittent screams, each running her blood cold.

               But nothing else changed. No one came for her, bringing either food or water. Nothing interrupted her pacing.

               It was maddening.

…

               Joan began to wonder if _she_ were the one being tortured after all. The distant hum and dripping sound were the only constants. Aside from the sound of her own pacing or exercises, it was only the occasional scream.

               She tried to sleep, but the floor was too cold and uncomfortable.

               She tried sitting on the ground and leaning back against the wall, but just as she was beginning to nod off, Moriarty would scream again, jolting her awake.

               She began to feel feverish. Sometimes she would imagine she saw something in the darkness, something person-shaped. Sometimes she could almost make out Sherlock’s outline. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. Not yet, anyway. She knew he wasn’t there. She just wanted him to be.

               Joan wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Moriarty might have been tortured before, but even she would have her limits. Even _she_ would have a breaking point.

               Her screams seemed weaker as the hours—or had it been days?—dragged on. They seemed closer together too, although Joan wasn’t sure if they were actually more frequent or if it was just her imagination.

               Still she paced.

               Still she did her squats, until her legs shook with the effort.

               Eventually she sat in the far corner of the room, the one farthest away from the door. They had to come for her, at some point. She didn’t want to have her back to them when they did.

…

               In the hellish interim, Joan was left with her thoughts. There was nothing else for her to do. It was one of the main things she’d tried to avoid over the past six months. But there was no avoiding it now. In the darkness, without any light, what else could she do?

               In the back of her mind, she had always suspected that Moriarty had had something to do with Sherlock’s disappearance. A part of her had always known. The weeks of circuitous traveling, the refusal to tell her anything of substance, continually hedging her questions—Moriarty had been behind it all. It was _obvious_.

               Now that she had time to think about it, everything clicked into place. Joan felt like an idiot. Moriarty’s words came floating back to her. Would it have taken Sherlock _this_ long to figure it out?

               Sitting in the darkness, the silence intermittently broken by Moriarty’s screams of pain, Joan couldn’t help cataloguing a list of her failures. She didn’t care if Moriarty’s daughter had been kidnapped, this was _personal_. Moriarty had wanted to watch Joan suffer up close.

               That’s what most of this was, she realized. Moriarty tormenting her. She had waited so patiently to enact her revenge, sitting in jail so calmly, biding her time until the perfect, opportune moment. She had wanted Joan to be lulled into a sense of safety and tranquility, to think that she had won. To think that she had truly defeated the likes of Jamie Moriarty.

               Well. If her goal had been to destroy Joan, she was doing a damned good job of it.

               Since Sherlock had gone missing, every person in Joan’s life had let her down. She had become obsessed with finding Sherlock, to the detriment of all the other relationships in her life. Granted, her companionship with Sherlock was the most important one to her, but still. She didn’t feel vindicated that she had been right all along, that Sherlock was still alive. She felt hollow. She felt exhausted, as if all the tireless months of research and searching had finally caught up with her in this one moment. She had been _so sure_ that she would outsmart Moriarty again, but the truth was, she had never beaten her in the first place. Moriarty had more than proven that when she had waltzed out of jail. She was always ten steps ahead of everyone else, and now Joan knew that firsthand.

               The only saving grace in all of this was that Joan was now positive that Sherlock was still alive. She knew that Moriarty had loved him at one point, in her own way. Moriarty wouldn’t harm someone as brilliant as Sherlock, someone who she had once considered running away with. She knew her words from earlier had stung Moriarty, but they were true. Sherlock might be the only person in the world who truly cared about her. Even when she had faked her own death and ‘killed’ Irene, she had only done it to throw Sherlock off her trail. It begrudged Joan to admit it, but there was no way Moriarty could’ve predicted Sherlock’s downward spiral into drug addiction. She would never have intentionally hurt him.

               But all that was of small comfort now. What good did it do her if she knew Sherlock was alive? If Moriarty’s wasn’t as resilient as Joan was counting on her to be, then she’d never find out where Sherlock was. And that didn’t even begin to solve the problem of how the hell they were going to get out of this mess first, let alone find Moriarty’s daughter. For someone who always seemed to know what was coming, Joan seriously doubted that Moriarty had predicted this.

               Or maybe she _had_.

               The thought sent a shiver of fear down Joan’s back. She remembered Moriarty’s words right before the smoke bombs had knocked them out: “ _They’re going to lead us right to her._ ”

                So she _had_ known. What kind of a cockroach _was_ Moriarty? She barely seemed human, sometimes. Who would willing let themselves be taken when they knew they were going to be tortured?

               _Someone whose child has been kidnapped_ , she thought with a jolt. And it wasn’t like she was one to judge. Hadn’t she gone to similar drastic lengths to find Sherlock? Hadn’t she walked right into the hands of the most notorious criminal in the world to find him? Looked the other way when Moriarty had sprung herself out of jail, as if it were nothing? Joan couldn’t act high and mighty anymore. She didn’t have the moral high ground. She’d made a pact with the devil, and if she wanted her sacrifices to be worth it, she had to fulfill her end of the bargain. No matter how much more of her soul it took, Sherlock was worth it. He _had_ to be.

                Or else this had all been for nothing.

…


	8. Chapter Eight

               Joan was awoken from a sort of half-stupor by a grating sound. The door was being opened. She struggled to sit up straight, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She was blinded by the light that now flooded the room. Every single sound—the door opening, pounding footsteps, voices that were speaking and not screaming—it was all overwhelming.

               She resisted the urge to curl into the fetal position. Before she could react, rough hands grabbed her and forced her to stand. They half-dragged, half-carried her out of the room. They turned right and led her down the hallway. Her stomach sank. They were taking her to Moriarty.

               _Maybe she was dead._ Joan couldn’t stop the thought from flashing through her mind. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Moriarty scream, though of course time was just jumbled nonsense to her now anyway.

               She forced her eyes open in stages. She needed to be paying attention if she were going to escape later. The first thing she noticed was the floor. It looked like concrete. The next thing she noticed was the black boots of the people dragging her. The boots were shiny in certain spots, almost like with oil.

               No. It was _blood_.

               Joan did her best not to tense up, but the men dragging her—she risked a sidelong glance at them both—tightened their grips on her arms anyway. Their faces were like stone. It was impossible to decipher their expressions, but that didn’t surprise her. They were obviously professional; ex-military, if their gait and posture were anything to go by.

               She couldn’t risk looking behind her, but from the footsteps it sounded like there were two men following them. Their group stopped abruptly. They’d reached the end of the hall.

               Joan raised her head slightly. There were two more men in front of her. _Six_ men? That seemed excessive to drag one dehydrated prisoner down a hallway. Moriarty had clearly been given them hell. Joan smiled in spite of everything.

               As the men opened the door, she steeled herself for what she would see. Moriarty’s broken body, blood everywhere—Joan wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but she knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.

               What she _wasn’t_ anticipating was Moriarty, sitting calmly in the far corner of the room, and four agitated men conversed in a huddle on the opposite side of the room, as far away from her as they could possibly be.

               Moriarty looked bruised and bloody, and Joan could tell by her posture that her left shoulder—or possibly her collarbone?—was broken, or at least dislocated. She had to be in pain, but she was sitting up straight, and had a slight smirk, as always. She locked eyes with Joan as she entered the room. For the briefest moment, her face fell. Something flashed in her eyes—worry? Fear?—but just as quickly, her smirk returned before anyone else noticed.

               As the door was closed behind Joan, she was brought to the center of the room. The six men who’d escorted her down the hallway joined the four men huddled in conversation.

               Their whispering was indiscernible, but Joan wasn’t focused on them. She was staring at Moriarty, trying to communicate with her through facial expressions alone. Moriarty casually stretched her right arm and reached it toward her left shoulder. _So it_ was _broken_ , Joan thought to herself. That was going to be a problem. Not only was it going to take much longer to heal, but it was going to make it much harder for them to escape.

               Before they could communicate any further, the door behind Joan opened. She was surprised to see a petite, redheaded woman waft into the room. There was an almost airy grace about her—she had been a dancer at some point in her life, Joan was sure of it. Probably ballet, if the woman’s light but precise footsteps were anything to go by.

               The ten men stood to attention and straightened themselves into two neat rows of five as the woman moved over to their side of the room.

               She _was in charge?_ She didn’t look like someone who’d plotted an elaborate kidnapping scheme, or destroyed the network of an infamous crime lord, let alone _Moriarty’s_. But then again, Joan supposed that was the point. Moriarty didn’t look like a criminal either, and yet here they were.

               After a brief whispered conversation, the redheaded woman turned to face Joan. She smiled, if it could be called that. It was brief and didn’t reach her eyes. Joan sensed that the woman was frustrated, and as she drew closer to Joan, she could see bags under the woman’s eyes. Joan resisted the urge to glance over at Moriarty, but she wanted to smile. Whatever this woman wanted from Moriarty, whatever she wanted to know, Moriarty obviously hadn’t told her.

               “Who are you?” The redheaded woman’s voice came out in a huff of annoyance, despite her continued strained smile. “Are you the reason she—” her had flicked in Moriarty’s direction “—has been so _stubborn_?”

               She circled around Joan slowly. “You don’t look like much. Beautiful, of course. But there’s not much _substance_ to you. Oh well. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

               Joan glanced over at Moriarty in puzzlement. Moriarty was glaring at the redheaded woman, who had stopped to Joan’s left. She smirked at Moriarty and turned to Joan again.

               “Well?”

               Joan wasn’t sure if she should tell the woman who she was, but she didn’t see why she should lie, either. This exchange was clearly not about _her_.

               “My name is Joan Watson.”

               Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Moriarty stiffen. _She_ obviously thought she should’ve used an alias. _Too late now._

               “Hmm. And you were—are?—a doctor.”

               Joan looked at the redheaded woman in surprise. She sighed in annoyance, but chose to ignore Joan’s reaction. “I’m C. That’s all you need to know.”

               “Her name is _Cassandra_ ,” Moriarty snapped. “Never bothered to learn her last name.”

               “No, it’s _C_.”

               “Only because you’re a copycat.”

               That seemed a little petty, especially for Moriarty. Her shoulder must really be bothering her, or else Cassandra had actually gotten under her skin somehow.

               Cassandra laughed, hollow and echoing in the empty space. “I drew inspiration from you, _M_. You should be flattered.”

               “Really? Well, you’ll have to forgive me if I just can’t bring myself to care. Let’s get on with it. _Where is my daughter?_ ”

               “Oh, so you _do_ remember! Wonderful. Rather careless of you to let her be taken, don’t you think? A _second_ time, no less?”

               If Moriarty didn’t have a broken shoulder, and if Cassandra didn’t have ten of her men standing at attention, Joan would’ve been even more afraid for Cassandra. Although Moriarty remained perfectly still, her face clouded over for the briefest moment. Even though it wasn’t directed at her, the raw anger frightened Joan.

               “Now, Jamie,” Cassandra drawled, mimicking Moriarty’s accent, “Let’s not ruin all the fun.” She turned to Joan again. “Just how much do you know about Jamie, after all?”

               She began pacing. Her movements were silent. She reminded Joan of a panther, or something else stalking its prey. Joan wasn’t sure how to play this, but it was probably safest to just go along with Cassandra, at least while she was holding all the cards.

               “I know more than I’d like to.” Joan crossed her arms, hoping her scowl wasn’t too over-the-top.

               Apparently subtlety wasn’t Cassandra’s forte. She almost cackled with delight. “Oh, this is rich.” She circled to Joan’s right. “Do you dislike _her_ as much as I do?”

               “Probably more.”

               Moriarty frowned to hide her smirk. Of course she could tell that Joan was playing along. But even so—all lies had some truth in them, right? Isn’t that what Moriarty had told her?

               “Delightful. What’d she do to you?”

               “She took something of mine. Something important.”

               “Really?” Cassandra was incredulous. “What’d she take?”

_Why was Cassandra pumping her for information? Did she actually care, or did she just want to hurt Moriarty?_ “She took…a painting of mine.”

               Cassandra stopped pacing and looked at Joan quizzically. “What was it, a Picasso?” she scoffed. “You should hear what she’s done to _me_ —”

               “And what was that?”

               “No, don’t _cheat_. Don’t be like _her_. She never plays by the rules. Just makes them up as she goes. What was the painting of?”

               “Me.”

               Cassandra looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “Oh Joan… _please_ don’t tell me you’re that egotistical.”

               She was losing her. Time to lay on the dramatics. Joan titled her head up and forced herself to stare at the overhead lights without blinking. It worked. She started to tear up slightly. “It was painted by—by my father,” she finished huskily, as if tears were choking her up.

               “And what happened to him?” Cassandra’s voice was softer now, and she placed a hand on Joan’s shoulder reassuringly.

               “He…he died. _She_ killed him.”

               Cassandra gasped. “How tragic! I can see why you dislike her. But can you imagine—she killed my _husband_?”

               Moriarty shook her head slightly, as if they’d had this conversation many times before. Joan didn’t doubt that Moriarty had killed him. There was the off chance that it’d been someone else, or that she’d been double-crossed or something along those lines. But it was more likely that she’d killed him herself. That wasn’t the question Joan was asking herself—it was what he’d done to deserve it, if anything. Moriarty might not be a saint, but she only killed when she was backed into a corner, or to protect herself or someone else. She wouldn’t have killed him without a reason.

               “Your husband?” Joan looked at her pityingly. “How awful.”

               “It was.” Cassandra launched into a long and elaborate tirade about growing up with Moriarty, always being in her shadow, but being treated like part of her family.

               “Her mother always loved me best, you know,” she continued, and based on Moriarty’s reaction, perhaps that held a grain of truth.

               But Joan was puzzled by Cassandra. She seemed calm one moment—methodical, precise, deliberate—and unhinged the next. She paced the room or she stood stock still, staring into the distance. She spoke softly or she was on the verge of yelling. But above all else, she either loved Moriarty or despised her.

               “I didn’t know she was involved with drugs until we were in high school. But of course, she’d started much younger than that.”

               Joan wasn’t buying this. There were too many holes in Cassandra’s story. For one thing, Moriarty still had a British accent, which meant she most likely hadn’t grown up in America. And if Cassandra’s almost Southern twang was anything to go by, she’d never spent a significant amount of time in England either.

               What was the truth? Did it matter? Joan didn’t really need to know _why_ they were here. Cassandra thought she’d been wronged, and she had a grudge. Why would the particulars be important?

               Joan was wondering if there was a way she could politely speed things along when Moriarty spoke. “When you came to me, you were so strung out you could barely function. I made you strong. Gave you purpose.”

               “Made me—? You ruined my _life_.”

               “No. You did that all on your own.”

               For the first time, Joan saw a glimpse of the sheer rage bubbling under the surface. Cassandra looked at Moriarty with such fury, such hatred. “I lost _everything_.”

               “But you had nothing to begin with. You spiraled out, yes. But I got you clean when you came to me, and afterwards, you got clean again on your own.”

               “No thanks to you.”

               “Don’t you see?” Moriarty snapped. “I showed you _how_. I showed you your own strength. Because of me, you knew it was possible.”

               Joan stared at Moriarty as a horrifying realization dawned on her. Sherlock wasn’t the only person she’d caused to lapse into drug addiction. She’d always claimed she’d faked her own death because Sherlock had been getting too close to the truth. She’d claimed she had no idea he would start using. But this—this changed everything.

               As the two women continued arguing, Joan watched them. She looked for any hints that they were lying, but there were none. She knew she should pay closer attention to what they were saying, see if either of them revealed something she could use against them or use to escape and find Sherlock.

               But all she could focus on was how one person’s descent into drugs because of Moriarty’s actions might be an accident, but _two_ indicated a pattern. And who knew how many others there were. She knew by now that Moriarty was a force to be reckoned with, but she had never guessed that the scope of her destructive wake would be so wide.

               Joan forced herself to walk away from the women. She didn’t trust herself to not question Moriarty right now, even with Cassandra there. She would start asking about Sherlock, and she couldn’t bear to hear Moriarty’s lies about him. Not now.

               She sank to the ground in the corner of the room farthest away from them and Cassandra’s men. They didn’t notice, and Cassandra’s men were still in two neat rows, watching the proceedings with bored and slightly put-upon expressions.

               Joan sighed and let her head fall back against the wall. If she closed her eyes, maybe this would be over. Maybe all of this would be over, and she and Sherlock would still be in the brownstone, and their friends would still be supportive, and everything would be okay again.

…


	9. Chapter Nine

               A cry of pain jolted Joan awake. She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off. It was Moriarty. Joan couldn’t see what the two men now standing over the blonde woman had done, but Moriarty was desperately scooting away from them, her face twisted in agony.

               Cassandra was now standing off to the side, watching the scene with a calm, dead-eyed expression. “Again,” she said, her voice low and firm.

               One of the men grabbed Moriarty’s right side and held her still. The other hit her left shoulder, the one that was broken. Moriarty cried out in pain again.

               “Stop it!” Joan didn’t regret speaking, but she hadn’t expected to. It was one thing to hear Moriarty’s screams from afar, but up close it was too much to bear. “Leave her alone,” she commanded. She wasn’t sure what her words would accomplish, but if she kept the men distracted, they wouldn’t be hurting Moriarty.

               “What went wrong?” she continued, turning to Cassandra. “You were fighting like old friends not long ago. What changed?”

               Cassandra looked at Joan with narrowed eyes. “She wouldn’t stop _lying_.”

               “That’s all she ever does.”

               Cassandra nodded. “Perhaps. But some lies are worse than others.”

               It was like a gut punch. She was right—there were some lies that went too far, that you couldn’t come back from.

               Cassandra noticed Joan’s reaction. “It hurts, remembering your father. Doesn’t it?”

               Joan had almost forgotten her own lie. “You have no idea.”

               “Oh, but I think I do. Come here, Joan.”

               It wasn’t a request. She stood and walked over to the redheaded woman. Cassandra looked between her and Moriarty. “Wouldn’t you like some revenge?” she asked Joan. “Help me decide what to do next.”

               She meant torturing Moriarty. Joan recoiled. She wanted Moriarty to atone for what’d she done, almost as much as she wanted Sherlock back. She wanted Moriarty to answer for all the pain and heartbreak she’d caused, all the lives she’d ruined. But not like this. Not here.

               Joan shook her head. It felt heavy, as if her body were willing her not to. She felt like she was on the edge of something, like there was no coming back after her next words. “I can’t.”

               Cassandra looked at her in disappointment. “And here I was beginning to like you, despite your obviously fake story.” She chuckled hollowly. “Don’t look so surprised. Did you honestly think that was going to fool me? _My father, a painting_ …? Even so…” She tilted her head to the side slightly. “I can tell that you really don’t like her. Just not for the reasons you said.”

               Joan tried to protest, but it was half-heartedly. Cassandra gave her a stern look. “Don’t grovel. It makes no difference to me.” She motioned two of her other men over. “Do to her leg what you did to Jamie’s shoulder.” She paused, contemplating for a moment. “The right one. She favors it.”

…

               Joan backed up. She hadn’t expected _that_.

               “You don’t have to do that,” Moriarty said. It scared Joan to hear the desperation and fear in her voice.

               Cassandra’s men paid her no mind. Joan’s back hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go.

               “Stop, Cassandra,” Moriarty snapped. The tremble in her voice undermined the fierceness with which she’d spoken. “She has _nothing_ to do with this. This has always just been about you and me.”

               Cassandra gave Moriarty a disdainful look. “ _You’re_ the one who brought her here. _You_ dragged her into this. This is on you.” She turned to Joan. “Didn’t you like how I had that painting of you covered? I was warning her that something like _this_ would happen to you.”

                She turned back to Moriarty. “You could’ve prevented this if you’d just cooperated with me. I only wanted to know one tiny, little thing. Oh, Jamie. Always so selfish.”

               Two of Cassandra’s men were now standing in front of Joan. One of them grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. He nodded to his comrade, who pulled a baton seemingly out of thin air.

               “Okay, okay!” Moriarty said quickly. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Please.”

               “Is this the great and terrible M _begging_? We tortured you for _days_ and you didn’t break. But now—for _her_?” Cassandra walked behind Moriarty. She grabbed her broken shoulder in one arm and her face in the other. “What’s so special about her?”

               Even from across the room, Joan could tell that Moriarty was shaking with pain. Even if Cassandra hadn’t been gripping her face too tightly for her to speak, she wouldn’t have been able to anyway.

               “You and I both know,” Cassandra said in a low voice, “That we’re far, far past this. You had your chance. And this is the consequence.”

               Cassandra nodded. Joan tried to struggle as the two men again turned to her, but their grips were too tight.

               She didn’t see the blow that broke her leg. She just felt it.

               Quick, excruciating pain. The sickening sound of shattering bone.

               One hit, and she collapsed to the floor.

               She didn’t know if her mouth was just opening and closing in agony or if she were screaming. She could only hear a buzzing sound. Blood rushing in her ears, her heart beating faster.

               Cassandra’s men stood impassively over her. Moriarty had turned away from her, her face contorted in sympathy pain.

               Cassandra still had her iron grip on Moriarty’s shoulder, but she’d released her face. She was staring at Joan quizzically. “That’s it? You’re much weaker than I expected.” She straightened up and walked to the center of the room. “Jamie has endured all kinds of torture, haven’t you, Jamie?”

               She turned back to look at the blonde woman, who had fixed her with a cold, blank stare.

               “I removed her _fingernails_ , Joan. One by one,” Cassandra said slowly, as if she were lost in the memory of it. “I’m not sure if you noticed that. And sure, she screamed. But look at _you_. One broken bone and you fall apart?” She shook her head. “I don’t get what you see in her, Jamie, I really don’t.”

               She turned around again expectantly, as if she’d just told a joke and was expecting Moriarty to laugh. But Moriarty’s expression remained stoic. Her mask was back in place, her expression inscrutable.

               “Oh, come on. Nothing?” She walked back to Moriarty and crouched next to her. “Do you want to know if your daughter was this _weak_?”

               She had spoken the last words quietly, but Joan had still heard them. Her heart almost skipped a beat. It wasn’t that she actually believed that they might have come all this way, and suffered so much, only to discover that Moriarty’s daughter was dead. It was that Cassandra thought she was the predator and Moriarty the prey. But she had it backwards.

               To Joan’s surprise, Moriarty chuckled. “For your sake, I hope not.”

               In the blink of an eye, Moriarty reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small, thin razor. She let it glint in the light for a moment before burying it in the side of Cassandra’s neck.

               Cassandra’s eyes went wide. She clawed at the razor, her mouth already bubbling with blood.

_Don’t take it out!_ Joan wanted to shout, but it was too late. With a quick tug, Cassandra yanked the razor out of her neck. Blood spurted everywhere. Cassandra’s men rushed to her side, but it was too late. Moriarty had hit an artery—because of course she had, she was never imprecise about anything—and Cassandra had sealed her own fate by removing the blade.

               Her men circled her, stunned, as they stood by helplessly, watching her bleed out. Moriarty stood calmly. “Damn,” she said nonchalantly, as if she were discussing the weather, “I wanted that to last longer.” She walked past the men, who didn’t even look up. She walked over to Joan and knelt down next to her. “Are you all right?” she asked gently.

               Joan couldn’t help flinching when she touched her shoulder. She had blood spatter all over her. She had just _murdered_ someone. _Again_. But she was so calm. _This_ was who she really was. There was no mask now. This was pure, primal instinct. Joan knew Moriarty was dangerous, but she realized now that she should’ve been more afraid of her.

               Joan pushed her hand away. “I’m fine.”

               A brief cloud passed over Moriarty’s face, but her expression returned to its usual cold neutrality a moment later.  “I had to kill her because you told her your real name, _Joan_. I know you’re new to this, but that’s a bit amateurish, even for you.”

               Joan wished she could come up with a snappy reply, but she was too tired, and in too much pain. If Moriarty wanted to blame her for something she had obviously been planning on doing anyway, then so be it.

               Moriarty waited for her to respond, but when she didn’t reply, she stood again, looming over her like the angel of death. “Fine,” she said. “Just don’t forget that this isn’t over yet.”

               As she turned to walk away, Joan couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How are you going to find your daughter now? You still don’t know where to look.”

               Moriarty looked at her sideways. “Honestly, Joan, sometimes I feel like you doubt me, like you _still_ don’t realize what I’m capable of.” She waved in the direction of Cassandra’s men. “ _They_ obviously know where she is. Someone had to be taking care of her while I was being tortured, right? And now that they’re— _unemployed_ , they’ll be more than willing to assist me. For the right price, of course.”

               And with that, Moriarty turned to face Cassandra’s men, who were still huddled uselessly over the body. “How much did she pay you?”

               The men looked up at her. Joan noticed that none of them looked particularly sad, just shocked.

               “Enough,” one of them muttered gruffly.

               Moriarty rolled her eyes. “Don’t be coy. Whatever she was paying you? I’ll triple it.”

               The men exchanged skeptical glances. “Prove it,” the one who’d spoken before said.

               “Get me a laptop,” Moriarty countered, smiling while the blood dripped slowly down her face.

…


	10. Chapter Ten

               Joan rested her forehead against the cold car window. Her head jolted against it with every bump they went over, but she didn’t care. She was burning up. It hadn’t taken Moriarty long to wire Cassandra’s men their money—Joan didn’t know where the money was coming from, nor did she care to—but she knew if she didn’t get to a hospital soon, she’d be at risk for getting an infection. Her leg had been broken in such a way that it would take a long time to heal, she could already tell. She tried not to think of how much it hurt.

               Not that it made much of a difference now anyway. Now that Cassandra’s men were Moriarty’s—how sickening it was that money could so easily sway someone, and how ironic that it had swayed Moriarty’s daughter’s guardians in the first place—they were leading her and Joan to where her daughter was being kept.

               Joan was vaguely surprised her daughter wasn’t being kept in the same facility that they’d been in, but that probably would have been too obvious. She closed her eyes. She didn’t care anymore. She was so tired. This had all gone way too far. All she wanted was to get to Sherlock and never lay eyes on Moriarty ever again.

               She didn’t know how long they’d been driving. She should’ve been paying attention to their route, in the extremely likely event that Moriarty double-crossed her and abandoned her once she examined her daughter and ensured that she was okay. But her head was pounding in agony, in time with the pulsating, radiating pain of her leg. It was difficult to concentrate on anything else.

               After an indeterminable amount of time, the car came to an abrupt stop. Joan roused herself form her feverish stupor. Moriarty, who was sitting shotgun, turned back to look at her.

               Her brow furrowed with worry. “Brace up, Joan. It’s almost finished, I promise.” Her face was so clean now. It hadn’t taken her long at all to wipe off all the blood.

               Joan stared back at her in stony silence. Unperturbed, Moriarty motioned to the driver and the man sitting beside Joan. “Help her out.”

               The building was much like the last, or maybe that was only Joan’s imagination. Moriarty’s men grabbed her arms tightly, but they held her steady. Despite their bruising grip, she was grateful for their assistance.

               Moriarty spoke to the men loitering outside, who Joan supposed were guards. They looked bored, as if no one ever came here.

               The maze of hallways seemed endless, and even with the men supporting her arms, Joan had to stop several times to rest. The building was clean enough on the inside, which was a good sign. Joan stole a glance at Moriarty. She looked carved from stone. Whatever she was feeling was hiding behind her well-practiced mask.

               Finally they stopped in front of a plain metal door, identical to all the rest, in a random side hallway. It wasn’t even at the back of the building; Joan could see more hallways stretching beyond where they’d stopped. They would never have found this door so quickly on their own.

               Joan turned to Moriarty, who had been completely silent ever since they’d entered the building. She looked pale, and Joan could see a few beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. She motioned at the door, and one of the men holding up Joan released her and reached into his pocket. He held out a ring of keys to Moriarty. She shook her head impatiently. Her hands were shaking slightly, and when she saw that Joan had noticed, she put them behind her back.

               The man shrugged and selected one of the middle keys. As he fit the key into the lock and opened the door, he had to use both hands. He stood patiently holding it open for them.

               Moriarty walked up to the threshold and peered into the room. It was dark inside, and there were no sounds coming from within.

               “There’s a light switch on the left there,” the man holding the door said helpfully.

               Moriarty didn’t seem to hear him. She drifted slowly into the room, almost as if she were in a dream. She advanced to the far side of the room, where Joan could just see the outline of a bed.

               “Myra?”

               A figure on the bed stirred, and Joan could just make out someone small sitting up.

               “Jamie!” The little girl threw her arms around Moriarty.

               With that one word, Joan’s heart broke a little. Of _course_ Myra wouldn’t know that Moriarty was her mother. It was probably safer that way. But _still_. Despite everything, Joan felt a pang of sympathy for Moriarty.

               “Where’s Mommy?” Myra asked Moriarty, who had carefully extracted herself from her daughter’s grasp—while still managing to hide the fact that her shoulder was broken—and sat down next to her on the bed.

               Even in the darkness, Joan could see Moriarty stiffen. “She…had to go away.” Moriarty’s voice was strained, and she spoke as if through gritted teeth. “You understand that, don’t you?”

               The little girl shrugged. “I guess. When is she coming back?”

               “We can talk about that later,” Moriarty said hurriedly. “Right now, my friend is going to make sure you’re okay. She’s a doctor.”

_Friend?_ Joan bit back a snort for Myra’s sake. The man still holding Joan’s arm helped her into the room, pausing patiently while she turned on the lights.

               All of them winced for a moment in the glaring brightness, but Joan crossed the rest of the room with steady determination.

               She could tell almost immediately that Myra was fine. She could see that Myra had been relatively well cared for, but Joan knew that Moriarty wouldn’t be satisfied with a quick examination. Myra’s hair looked clean, and there were no visible marks, bruises, or cuts on her arms. As she had Moriarty’s daughter turn this way and that and asked her various questions about what she’d eaten and had to drink, a part of Joan had to admit that she couldn’t blame Moriarty. Even without children herself, Joan couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to lose a child. _Again_.

               The thought caused Sherlock to come crashing to the forefront of her mind. She locked eyes with Moriarty. The blonde woman nodded, satisfied with Joan’s examination.

               “Myra sweetie, I’m going to be gone for just a moment while I go talk with the doctor.”

               Myra nodded and good-naturedly curled up on the bed again. Moriarty left the room reluctantly, but she didn’t protest when the man holding the door closed it.

               “She looks like she was well cared for,” Joan said.

               Moriarty shook her head. “No. Not here.”

               A flash of warning went through Joan as Moriarty led them down several more hallways. Now that she’d given her daughter a clean bill of health, Moriarty didn’t need her anymore. And there was no way to ensure she’d keep _her_ end of the bargain and tell her where Sherlock was.

               Moriarty stopped and turned to her. “Continue,” she said, and Joan couldn’t help noticing that she was much calmer now. She was no longer sweating, and her hands were folded neatly in front of her.

               “You saw as well as I did that she was fine. Cassandra fed her regularly, and she isn’t dehydrated. She was well cared for.”

               “As much as a murderer can care for anyone.”

               It took all of Joan’s restraint not to say that she was one to talk. Instead, she continued as if Moriarty hadn’t spoken. “She has no broken bones, and no outward signs of any recently-healed ones. She doesn’t appear to have been tortured.”

               “A small relief.” Moriarty studied her for a long moment. She seemed to be trying to decide something. At length, she said quietly, “I never factored you into my equations before.” She spoke slowly, as if she were unsure why she was speaking. “That was my mistake.”

               Joan was taken aback for a moment. “What?”

               “I was fascinated by you when I first met you, of course. But I underestimated you. Sherlock was so intrigued by you, so I knew you had to be special in some way. But you’re so much _more_ than that.” She paused. “Especially to him. You’re _everything_.”

               “What are you talking about?”

               “You bested me once before, Joan. That won’t happen again.”

               Joan took a step back, her stomach sinking. Was Moriarty going to _kill_ her?

               Moriarty noticed her fear, sensed it like a predator. “I’m not going to hurt you, Joan. You _saved_ Sherlock. It was one of my worst miscalculations. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d died.”

               _Continued on as if nothing had happened_ , Joan thought to herself, although a part of her suspected that Moriarty would’ve mourned him, in her own way. 

               “You’re the missing puzzle piece. When Cassandra took my daughter, I knew I would need help.”

               “What did Cassandra have against you?” Now that they’d found Myra and discovered that she was unharmed, Joan knew it wasn’t the right time to be asking questions. She needed to get to Sherlock, but she sensed that Moriarty was up to something. She wanted to stall her, if she could.

               Moriarty sighed, exasperated. “She botched a job for me, many years ago. And I don’t do second chances.”

               “Why didn’t you just kill her, then?” _Since you obviously had no trouble doing it now._

               “I was young, Joan. Naïve. I hadn’t learned that it’s best not to leave loose ends.”

               Joan nodded despite the chill shivering down her back. It made sense. But there was still one thing that wasn’t connecting for her. “Why did she wait all this time?”

               “She had to build up the nerve, I’m sure. And the network itself…it takes time. Years and years of practice. She had to study me. Do little favors for the people still in my employ. Find the weak spots. And once she’d found them, well—that’s the easy part. All you have to do is put just enough pressure on them until they move, and, if you’re very, very skilled….they’ll snap, seemingly of their own accord.”

               Joan’s leg throbbed in pain. She winced, and Moriarty looked as close to guilty as she was capable of.

               “I’m sorry,” she said, and although Joan wasn’t sure what exactly she was apologizing for, it sounded sincere. “I never wanted it to come to this.”

               “How did you _think_ this was going to end?” She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but the sentiment rang true. “ _Eventually_ you were going to have to tell me about taking Sherlock. We were _eventually_ going to have to confront Cassandra. Is that what the wild goose chase across D.C. was about?”

               Moriarty nodded. “I knew, from my daughter’s…” she paused, “ _Former_ caretakers, that the people who took Myra had contacts in D.C., though I wasn’t able to ascertain their exact whereabouts before—well.”

_Before you killed them_ , Joan finished to herself, shivering slightly despite her fever. “So you’re the one who left the note at the brownstone?” A terrible thought dawned on her. “ _You_ burned it down, didn’t you?”

               Moriarty laughed, as if it at a fond memory. “I admit, it wasn’t my best work. Downright sloppy, actually. When you were arguing with me about the note, I was actually afraid for a second that you wouldn’t help me.”

_Afraid?_ Joan seriously doubted that.

               “But you were as desperate as I was at that point, weren’t you?” she drawled.

               “That was your plan, wasn’t it?” Joan snapped.

               Moriarty nodded. “Yes. So it was.” She studied Joan again. “I took us to D.C. to let the people who took Myra—I didn’t know it was Cassandra, not yet, anyway—know that I was out of jail and that I wasn’t leaving. I grew as restless as you did, I assure you, when nothing happened for _weeks_. It was aggravating.” She brightened. “But then one of Cassandra’s men—well, he actually used to be one of mine, hence why I had to dispose of him—left us that note, and I knew the chase was on again.”

               Joan stared at her in silence for several moments. After all that had happened, Moriarty _still_ viewed this as a game. Her daughter being kidnapped, being tortured herself, murdering all those people—her former henchman, her daughter’s caretakers, Cassandra—even Joan’s leg being broken and her being forced to kidnap Sherlock in the first place…all this pain meant _nothing_ to Moriarty. She may have screamed when she was being tortured, but Joan doubted if she really felt anything at all.

               “What if things hadn’t ended this way?” she couldn’t help asking again.

               “What do you mean?” Moriarty said. “If Cassandra had hurt my daughter…you _really_ don’t want to know.”

               “That’s not what I meant. What if Cassandra had been an arms dealer or something?”

               Moriarty laughed, but her stare was cold. “Sherlock would’ve helped me, of course. Surely you must know that.”

               Joan contemplated it for a moment. It made her uneasy to think that Moriarty was almost certainly right. “How did you get him to help you in the first place?”

               “Does it really matter? I have a daughter to get back to, Joan.”

               “That bad, huh?”

               “Joan—”

               “I’d say you at _least_ owe me this much, don’t you?”

               She glanced down at Joan’s leg and sighed. “Fine. It was drugs, Joan. But I think a part of you already knew that.”

               Joan’s heart sank. “ _What_ —? You made him use _again_?”

               Moriarty looked surprised at her vehemence. “No, I—”

               “How _could_ you? Cassandra, Sherlock, and now him _again_ —” She stared at the blonde woman, unable to keep the look of disgust from her face. “How many people have to spiral out because of you?”

               As soon as the words had left her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake. Moriarty’s mask fell completely. Pure fury—and guilt—raged underneath. “You have _no idea_ who you’re dealing with, Joan. You never did. Even after all this time together—you _still_ don’t know what I’m capable of.” Moriarty advanced on her, but despite her fear, Joan stood her ground.

               “They were both _accidents_ ,” Moriarty snarled. “Unfortunate collateral damage.”

               Joan closed her eyes, tired of staring into cold blue ones. “Three times isn’t an _accident_ , Jamie. It’s a pattern.”

               “It wasn’t _three_. I told Sherlock _I_ was an addict now. And it’s all because of _your_ influence that he thought he could save me.”

               Joan opened her eyes in surprise.

               “You should’ve seen him when I first met him. He was so sharp, so brilliant. I weakened him, I admit. I know you don’t believe me, but I never foresaw that my ‘death’ would cause him to use.

               “But then _you_ came along, and at first, you made him strong again. But now he’s become too _attached_.” She spit out the word as if she didn’t have a daughter or anyone that weakened her too. “I may have made him weak first, but you’ve gone and _destroyed_ him. He’s nothing without you now.”

               Joan was speechless. Moriarty seemed to recover slightly in the silence, though Joan could still see that she was furious. “It’s a shame it’s had to come to this, Joan. We were getting along so well.” She paused, and then continued more quietly, “Unlike Cassandra, I can see what he sees you. Who knows, maybe I was even beginning to get _attached_ too.”

               With lightning speed, Moriarty struck Joan’s broken leg, directly on the break itself.

               There was no time to react. No time for anything but the piercing pain.

               Joan crumbled to the floor. The pain was so much worse than before. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt. She couldn’t even scream.

               As waves of darkness descended upon her, she watched helplessly as Moriarty walked away, her men following her. Her last thought before blackness consumed her was that she’d failed Sherlock yet again.

…


	11. Chapter Eleven

               Joan awoke in a car. Her head was again pressed against the window, and for a few disorienting moments she thought she was in the same car as before and had never left.

               As she stirred and sat up straight, she saw that no one was sitting beside her this time, and that Moriarty wasn’t in the passenger seat.

               The man driving—Joan recognized him as the one who’d held the door ***** —noticed that she’d woken up. He locked eyes with her in the rearview mirror. “My instructions are to transport you to the detective’s location. After that, you’ll be on your own.” His tone was clipped and businesslike.

               Joan knew it would be of no use to ask him how she was supposed to walk to wherever Sherlock was with her broken leg, not to mention how they were supposed to get out afterwards. But she knew he was just taking orders. He wouldn’t deviate from Moriarty’s plan no matter what Joan said.

               She nodded and tried to wait patiently for them to arrive at Sherlock’s location.  She expected to feel angry with Moriarty. But right now, all she could think about was getting Sherlock. Moriarty had done what she felt she had to do, which was exactly what Joan had expected, no more, no less.

               Even after their time together, it still wouldn’t have surprised Joan much if Moriarty betrayed her again and her men were just driving her to a quiet spot so she could be disposed of. The trees continued to fly past. As her fever raged on, Joan lost track of time. At some point, they turned off onto a gravel road. Joan’s senses were on high alert as they drove for another five minutes before stopping in front of yet another nondescript building.

               The driver bent down, evidently looking for something under the passenger side seat. Joan moved to open her door, knowing she wouldn’t get far anyway, when she saw that the man had pulled out a long umbrella. She relaxed.

               “Here,” he said. “To help you walk.” He rooted around in one of his pockets for a moment before fishing out a key ring with at least twenty keys on it. “For the doors.”

               Joan nodded her thanks and took the umbrella and keys. She had barely manager to hobble out of the car before the man was reversing, sending gravel flying. Joan watched him go and sighed. She turned to face the building. There was only one door that she could see.

               She did her best to remain steady on the gravel, but it was slow going. Joan was sure the building had once been guarded, but now it looked abandoned. She wondered if it had been that way for a long time, or if Moriarty truly worked that quickly. She didn’t know which would be worse.

               When she reached the door, she fumbled with a few of the keys. She was relieved when her fourth try was correct. The maze of hallways inside was well-lit, but there were three different pathways to choose from.

               “Sherlock?” she called. Her voice echoed, but the hallways had no end in sight. Her breath hitched in her throat. She felt tears at the edge of her vision, but she angrily blinked them away. Now was no time to get emotional.

               She picked the left hallway and gamely trudged along. The umbrella was a great help, she was happy to find. Crutches or a cane would’ve been better, but it was certainly better than nothing.

               She tried all the doors she came across, but none of them contained Sherlock. She called out Sherlock’s name as she went, but she was met with silence. The flickering overhead lights cast strange shadows on the floor. She strained her ears for any sound, but the only things she could hear were her own labored breathing and the pounding of her heart. As she reached the end of the first hallway with no luck, she rested a moment in defeat. She hoped this wasn’t a wild goose chase.

               She was already exhausted, but she ignored her returning fever and aching leg and forged stubbornly ahead. Once she finally reached the starting point again, she continued on to the right hallway. Of course Moriarty had hidden Sherlock well in this labyrinth. He was a prized possession, and she was mocking anyone who dared try to find him.

               Three doors from the end, she heard him.

               “Joan?”

               His voice was faint; it was coming from the door at the very end of the hall. She practically ran over to the door, the umbrella thumping loudly on the ground as she went. She almost dropped the keys in her haste.

               “Sherlock!” she called. “I’m here.” She tried one key after the other, growing more and more frustrated as each one refused to turn the lock. Finally, she found the right one. Her heart was in her throat. Struggling to keep her balance, she yanked open the door.

                She was startled to see him standing in the doorway. He had evidently had his ear pressed against the door.

               She was overwhelmed. _He_ was there. It was really him. Her breath left her in a whoosh. She tried to gauge if he was injured, but her eyes were filling with tears. She gripped the door for support. Her whole body was shaking.

               “Joan,” he rasped, and she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks. _He_ was standing there. He was breathing. He was looking at her, his face a mix of concern and wonder and something else she couldn’t quite place. “It’s not raining outside,” he said quizzically, indicating the umbrella, and she debated whether to hug him fiercely or smack him with it. She was leaning toward the latter.

               He stepped forward hesitantly and hugged her. He patted her awkwardly on the back, but it was so _Sherlock_ that she couldn’t help smiling anyway.

               Over his shoulder, a distant part of her mind catalogued the pile of books in the corner and the ratty mattress with a moth-eaten bedspread.

               He stepped back after a moment. “How did you find me?”

               It was such a loaded question that she didn’t know where to start. “Are you okay?” she asked instead. She appraised him quickly, clinically. From outward appearances, he looked a little malnourished, but he had obviously been regularly fed. He had bags under his eyes, and he was pale. He most likely hadn’t been outside in a long time, possibly months. Outwardly, nothing seemed to be broken.

               “Dehydrated and a little hungry, but otherwise fine.” He motioned to her leg. “But you’re not.”

               She nodded curtly. If she didn’t think about it, it didn’t hurt as much.

               “Who did that to you?” He looked behind her, as if the culprit were lurking in the shadows.

               “It doesn’t really matter, Sherlock. We need to get you out of here.”

               “Yes, it does.”

               She might have missed him, but not his stubbornness. “They’re dead.”

               He looked momentarily surprised. “Oh.” He studied her for a moment. “But _you_ didn’t kill them.”

               “No.” She shook her head. “Moriarty.”

               She hadn’t meant to say her name with such venom, but seeing Sherlock had reminded her how all of this was _her_ doing. Her friends betraying her, Sherlock going missing, even her broken leg—it was all _her_ fault. And now she’d escaped again. Joan doubted it would be the last time she’d ever see the blonde woman, but as much as she’d like Moriarty to be put back in jail, she wished it would be.

               Sherlock seemed about to comment when he evidently thought better of it. “You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes,” he said instead.

               She smiled weakly. “Same,” she managed. “It’s been a while,” she added lamely.

               “Yes. Jamie certainly put us through the ringer, didn’t she?”

               Joan’s face fell. _He…he isn’t angry with her at all._ Joan felt her ire rise. After months of searching for him, after their home being burned down, after being lied to and betrayed, after having all their friends abandon them and give up—he wasn’t upset _at_ _all_.

               “Is this a joke to you?” Her voice was low, but it crackled at the edges.

               “No,” he said quickly, taking a step back. “Of course not.”

“I risked my—you don’t know what I’ve _been through_.” She struggled to maintain her composure. “I’ve searched for you for…” She shook her head. “Everyone else gave up,” she whispered.

               “I know you never did,” he said, voice low as well. “But this hasn’t exactly been easy on me either. I was just trying to make light of the situation. I apologize.”

               “You shouldn’t be the one saying sorry.” She paused for a long moment. “How can you not be mad at her?” she asked quietly.

               Sherlock gazed at her for a moment in silence. “I’m not sure I can be,” he finally said. “Not after the first time. Someone can only fool you and break your heart so many times before you know better.”

               Joan sighed, but she nodded. “I should’ve known, Sherlock. It took me…it took me _so long_ to find you.” Her eyes filled with tears again.

               “Perhaps,” he said gently. “But I should’ve known too. She was always one of my weak spots.”

               Joan struggled not to roll her eyes.

               “And so are you.”

               She looked up at him quickly, and was surprised to feel herself beginning to blush. “We don’t have time for this, Sherlock,” she said, desperate to change the subject. “We need to go.”

               “Yes, your leg is certainly not going to get better on its own. I don’t suppose she was kind enough to leave a car for us?”

               Joan gave him a look.

               “I thought as much. Well…”

               As he spoke, the sound of running footsteps echoed down the hallway. Joan whirled around, immediately on the defensive.

               “Sherlock! _Joan_?”

               It was Detective Bell. Joan smiled in spite of herself.

               “How’d _you_ find us?” Sherlock asked.

               “It’s okay, Captain,” Marcus said into his walkie-talkie. “I found him. And Joan too, actually.”

               “Copy that,” Captain Gregson radioed back. “Thank god.”

               “There was an anonymous note left at the precinct,” Marcus answered in reply to Sherlock’s question. “Had exact coordinates to this place. Said we’d find you here,” he said, motioning to Sherlock. “But it didn’t mention you.” He looked at Joan. “It’s good to see you.” He smiled.

               Joan was happy to see him too, but she didn’t know what to say. She was still mad at him, even more than ever now that she’d been proven right.

               When she didn’t respond, Detective Bell sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t blame you for being upset. I would be too. I’m sorry for giving up on you, Joan. On giving up on _both_ of you.”

               It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a start.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Hodor! <3


	12. Chapter Twelve

               The next few hours were a blur of flashing lights and sirens. At some point, Joan’s leg was bandaged and put in a cast. At another, she was given food so bland that she didn’t recall what it was, though she ate it ravenously. She vaguely remembered Sherlock insisting that they be in the same hospital room. They were both being kept there for the next few days to ensure that they were recovering from their trauma.

               That word was thrown around a lot. _Trauma_. Joan knew she had been through an ordeal, knew Sherlock had been too. All she wanted to do was go home to the brownstone. The memory of it burning as the sunrise lit the sky on fire was distant from her. She knew there was pain, somewhere. But it was lurking.

               All she felt was numb.

…

               It was around 3 AM that the steady stream of doctors and nurses tapered off. Joan tried to sleep in the relative quiet, but every time she was about to doze off, she was jolted awake by the sound of screaming. At first she thought it was another patient. Then she thought it was her. But she wasn’t making any sound. It was all in her head.

               “Sherlock?” she whispered into the darkness. She felt badly for disturbing him, and hoped he wasn’t asleep.

               “Can’t sleep?” he whispered back immediately. “Me neither.”

               She sighed in relief. “I still don’t feel…”

               “Safe?”

               “Yes.” She breathed out again. “Exactly.”

               “We will, Joan. It’s just going to take some time.”

               Joan felt her heart constrict. What if she never felt okay again? She’d witnessed a murder right in front of her, and it hadn’t been like when Andrew had been poisoned. It had been messy. She could still see the blood dripping down Moriarty’s face, her lips curled upward in a devilish smile.

               Her best friend had been kidnapped. He’d been hidden so well she hadn’t been able to find him for over half a _year_. Her home had been burned to the ground. And she’d been forced to help a criminal, not to mention the very person who had locked up Sherlock in the first place.

               Worst of all, Moriarty was still at large. She’d turned her friends against her, made her feel even more alone and abandoned than she already had when Sherlock had first gone missing. And now that he was finally back, he wasn’t even angry with Moriarty, _or_ with their friends. If Moriarty _had_ killed her, would he have been upset then?

               “I need to understand why, Sherlock,” she said. “ _Why_ this happened to us. Why you aren’t upset. How you can still forgive her, after everything she’s done to you.” She paused. “To _me_.”

               There was a long silence. For a moment, Joan thought he wasn’t going to reply. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t answer any of that. And you know how frustrating it is for me to not know the answers. All I do know is that I’m sorry you had to get dragged into this. That you got hurt.”

               “That I—” Joan sat up in bed, indignant. “ _Of course_ I was going to be involved, Sherlock. Your partner doesn’t just disappear one day and you go on as if nothing happened.” She strained to see him in the dark, but she could only make out his vague outline. “I have to believe you would’ve done the same for me.”

               “You know I would’ve.” His voice was strained. “I don’t know why this happened,” he continued. “To me or to you. And I don’t know why I’m not angry. Maybe, given some time—”

               “You’ll never be angry with her.”

               “Yes,” he sighed again, “You’re probably right. I don’t think I’ll ever be upset with her, on my own account, anyway. But she hurt you—”

               Joan leaned back in her bed and shook her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “She didn’t break my leg.”

               “I know. But she might as well have, right? And I know she lied to you.” He paused. “But knowing you, Joan—” she could tell he was smiling, even in the dark “—You never trusted her much anyway.”

               Joan wanted to smile too. She wanted, needed, them to be okay. She wasn’t sure if Sherlock would ever be mad at Moriarty, and she wondered if she’d ever fully be able to put this all behind her if he wasn’t. She needed someone, _anyone_ , to acknowledge how _wrong_ this all was. Not to praise her. Not so she could say I-told-you-so’s. But because every time she tried to close her eyes, there were blue eyes and blonde hair waiting for her, grinning wickedly.

               Sherlock still revered Moriarty as some sort of saint, _the_ woman, more beautiful and perfect than anyone else. But Joan had seen enough of Moriarty by now to know better. She’d always known there was something twisted and broken in her, but she hadn’t realized before now to what extent.

               When they’d been traveling together, she’d been too busy, for the most part, to dwell on it much. But now, in the aftermath, the quiet beeping of monitors was a reminder of her beating heart and how close it’d come to breaking and stopping throughout all of this.

               She’d thought when she and Sherlock reunited—it had always been _when_ , not if—everything would automatically be okay again, or as close as it could get. She thought Sherlock would understand, out of everyone. But she felt more alone than ever.

               “Don’t do that,” Sherlock whispered, breaking the silence. “Don’t block me out.”

               Joan was quiet for a few more moments. “It’s hard not to. I feel like we went through the same things but you don’t understand me at all.”

               “Joan.” Sherlock sat up in his bed. She could see that he was turned toward her. “If I don’t ever feel what you think I should…are you ever going to forgive me?”

               She stared in his direction, lost in her thoughts. “I’m not sure it’s whether or not I can forgive you. I’m almost certain that I can, and will eventually. It’s not _you_ that I’m upset with.

               “But my bigger concern, I think, is whether we can get back to how we were. I think a lot has changed in the past six months. _I’ve_ changed.”

               “I think I have too.”

               “But Sherlock, it hasn’t been for the better. At least not with me. The things I saw, the things I had to do—I’m not so sure I’m a ‘good guy’ anymore.”

               “Don’t say that.”

               “It’s _true_. I can sit here and hate Moriarty all I want, but the truth is, I’m most upset with her for what she made me do. Or worse yet…for what she showed me about myself.”

               “You did what you had to, Joan. That doesn’t define who you are.”

               “Doesn’t it? Isn’t it when we’re tested most that we reveal our true selves? I looked the other way when she broke out of jail, Sherlock. When she _murdered_ people. Her face was dripping with blood, and I—”

               “Stop.”

               “Can’t you see that I _want_ to?” She hadn’t meant to shout. “I feel like I’ve been running a marathon for months on end, and now that we can finally pause and catch our breaths, I _can’t_. I can’t stop. Thinking about it, or her, or _everything_ that’s happened. And you’re not even _mad_ at her? She ruined everything. She ruined all the things we had together, the life that we built. She ruined _me_. But you don’t seem to care at all.”

               “Joan…” he trailed off, uncertain how to respond. “What if things can’t go back to how they were?”

               It was the first sign of vulnerability he’d shown since she’d found him. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. So he _was_ scared, just like she was, only in a slightly different way.

               She could work with that. They could _do_ this. If she could get him to talk about things, it would make her feel less alone. They didn’t have to agree on everything. She didn’t need him to feel the same way about everything as she did. She just needed to know that she wasn’t alone in this. That she wasn’t crazy. That she wasn’t on her own, not anymore.

               “We’re going to take things one day at a time, Sherlock. Just like with your recovery. That’s all we can do. Just take it one day at a time, and see how it goes.” She was speaking to herself as much as she was speaking to him.

               He was silent. At length, he whispered into the darkness, “I can’t lose you, Joan. No matter what happens to us. Your friendship—our bond, our partnership—it means everything to me.”

               Joan felt herself tear up a little, in relief, in gratitude. “I promise you, I’m not going anywhere.”

               And she knew she didn’t have to explain everything to Sherlock, at least not yet. There would be more than enough time to fill him in on the months he’d been gone, on how frustrated she’d been with their friends, even as some part of her had understood their choices.

               He didn’t need to know yet how alone she’d felt, how she’d refused to give up. He already knew, in part. She had always been there for him, and always would be. She was his best friend, his partner, his companion. She was as loyal and steadfast as anyone he’d ever known, and when she said she wasn’t going anywhere, that she would always be there for him, he knew it was true.

…


	13. Epilogue

               The winding road to their home was festive with flowers. It was spring, and everything was in bloom again. Neon colored balloons were tied to their mailbox. They were all celebrating Kitty’s birthday together. She’d flown in from Switzerland and was going to be staying with them for a week. Sherlock had been a thorn in Joan’s side for days, worrying over all the arrangements and busily tidying everything up for the umpteenth time.

               Since they’d been released from the hospital, they’d only taken on the occasional case with the precinct. It was harder now that they didn’t live in the city itself, but Joan had insisted. They needed a fresh start, or at least she did. The memory of their brownstone smoldering still woke her up some nights. Besides, Sherlock now had more than enough room in their backyard to bee keep to his heart’s content.

               They’d agreed to slowly ramp up to their previous level of detective work, but Joan could already tell that Sherlock was restless and bored. She’d thought _he_ would be the one who would need to take it slow, who would need time, but Sherlock was already more than ready.

               In truth, it was Joan who needed to take it slowly. She was still mentally recovering. She’d been through a lot, and she and Sherlock had talked long enough and often enough so that she’d realized two things: one, that she shouldn’t feel guilty about her progress or lack thereof during her recovery, and two, that Sherlock was probably helping her right now much more than she was helping him.

               While that might be the case, he didn’t seem to mind at all. He cooked and cleaned without the slightest complaint. He insisted they take mini day trips and that she reconnect with her friends and spend time with them. He never rushed her or made her feel badly when she had off days.

               “You know,” she’d said to him one day, “You’d make an awfully good sober companion.”

               His chest had puffed out with pride. “Well, I picked up a thing or two from the best,” he’d said, and smiled.

               Things had been getting easier, but they were by no means back to normal yet. Not that life with Sherlock had ever been normal. But even that life had fallen into its own comfortable patterns and daily routines. Their life now was getting there, but they still had a ways to go. Not that Joan minded all that much. Seeing Sherlock fall so naturally into a sort of mother hen role was both hilarious and comforting to her.

               Although her mental recovery had been progressing at a slow but relatively steady rate, reconciling with their old friends—Kitty, Alfredo, Captain Gregson, Marcus—had been a particular pain point for Joan. It didn’t seem to bother Sherlock as much, even after all their discussions about the past few months, even after she’d told him how alone she’d felt.

               “I’m not saying I would’ve done the same, Joan,” he’d said, “But of course you and I are more similar than our friends. I still constantly marvel that I have friends at all. That wasn’t really the case before you. I know they let you down. But I always had you, so I was never worried.”

               “But it took me over half a year to find you.”

               “Six months to outsmart the world’s greatest criminal? That’ll be a wound Jamie will have to nurse for a while. Her pride won’t recover easily from that. Then again,” he’d added thoughtfully, “She always underestimated you. But _I_ would never make that mistake twice.”

               Joan had smiled then, though she still wasn’t quite satisfied. Moriarty had still gotten away. She’d manipulated Joan and Sherlock and had gotten exactly what she wanted. Perhaps she’d been forced to reunite her with Sherlock, but from where Joan stood, she didn’t feel like she’d won. Moriarty was still at large, and despite Captain Gregson’s, Marcus’, and Sherlock’s combined efforts, they hadn’t been able to find even the slightest trace of her. The trail was already cold, and it had only been a few weeks.

               No. Moriarty was the one who’d outsmarted them all, and had gotten out of prison to boot. And it was all thanks to Joan and her desperation to find Sherlock. She’d played right into Moriarty’s hands. It was a small comfort to her to think that she wasn’t the only one who’d been fooled by the blonde woman before.

               Joan had thought Sherlock would feel exactly the same as she did about Moriarty and their friends, and even his ordeal on a whole. Joan realized now that it had been silly of her to think that. Sherlock never reacted predictably to anything. It was one of the things she liked best about him.

               Not having his kindred feelings toward their friends’ behavior especially had slowed her healing process down considerably. But as the weeks had passed, she’d found that she was able to let most of the anger go. She still needed to have frank discussions with all of them, and she would. They needed to know that they’d let her down. That they’d hurt her. And that even if Sherlock had already forgiven them—even if he didn’t even feel like they had anything to apologize for, at least as far as _he_ was concerned— _she_ still needed time.

               She hoped that forgiveness would come. She knew she had to accept the past, mistakes and all. She couldn’t let it haunt her, not like how her mistake back when she was a surgeon had. That had plagued her for the longest time. She didn’t know if she could go through something like that again.

               Luckily for her, this time she wasn’t alone. Joan didn’t know how Sherlock knew it was Kitty’s birthday—she didn’t recall him ever celebrating or acknowledging it in the past, as he found the idea of birthdays on a whole slightly ludicrous—but for the past month he’d been consumed with birthday plans for her.

               Joan hadn’t seen Kitty, Captain Gregson, Marcus, or Alfredo since Sherlock had been back, and she’d only talked with the Captain and Detective Bell briefly regarding the details of finding Sherlock and Moriarty escaping. She suspected that Sherlock had told them most of what they’d needed to know, and that he’d advised them not to ask her too many questions, for which she was grateful. It was still so painful to rehash it. She hoped it would grow easier with time.

               The doorbell rang, and Joan was surprised to find that her heart was beating faster and her hands were slightly clammy. She wanted this to go well. She and Sherlock _needed_ this to go well. Or maybe just she did.

               Sherlock practically ran to open the door. Joan had to bite back a laugh—he was still wearing her blue apron with the bees on it. It was too small for him, so flour had managed to find its way onto his shirt, pants, _and_ shoes. As he threw open the door, Joan saw that Captain Gregson, Alfredo, Marcus, and Kitty were all already gathered.

               “SURPRISE!” they yelled in unison.

               Each was holding a gift, and as they filed one by one into the house, they handed the presents to Joan, who quickly ran out of hands to hold the unexpected items.

               “What are these for? It’s Kitty’s birthday, not mine!”

               “Apologies, Joan,” Kitty said, “But the subterfuge was necessary. Sherlock insisted.”

               “What?” Joan was still confused. “It’s not my birthday either.”

               “We know,” Captain Gregson said. “But Sherlock… _reminded_ us that we missed your birthday when he was—”

               “Gone,” Sherlock finished quickly. Now that she and Sherlock had discussed the events of the past six months at such great length, he did everything he could to avoid mentioning his absence. When Joan had pressed him about it, he’d slithered out of saying anything more than that it was clearly one of her triggers and would only impede her healing progress.

               Joan turned to Sherlock in wonder. She hadn’t even really registered that her birthday had come and gone with little fanfare. Her mother had called her and left a voicemail, and she’d received a few happy birthday texts, but she’d been so consumed with finding Sherlock, so focused on everything else, that she’d deleted all the messages without a second thought.

               Sherlock was grinning at her, practically buzzing with excitement as he watched her figure everything out. “I hope you don’t mind, Joan,” he said, “But I think you needed this. Besides, it would be a tragedy to let your 150th birthday go by without a celebration.”

               He was too far away for her to easily smack him, so she settled with rolling her eyes instead. He’d recently found out that she was several years older than him—because apparently “People’s ages are of little consequence to me, Joan. I have too many other facts that I need to keep track of”—and he hadn’t let her live it down since. Nothing seemed to delight him more than gently teasing her and comparing her age to Clyde’s.

               “We know we messed up,” Alfredo said, thankfully bringing the conversation back on course.

               “And we know you’re still mad at us,” Kitty added.

               “But we hope you can forgive us, Joan,” Marcus said. “We should have believed you, and not given up on _either_ of you.” He indicated herself and Sherlock.

               Joan watched Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. He was nodding his head vigorously and seemed to be mouthing the words that everyone was saying. _Had he_ rehearsed _this with them? Had he told them what to say?_ She hardly knew whether to be flattered or insulted. It would be disappointing if their friends hadn’t thought of their own apologies themselves, but at the same time, Sherlock _had_ been taking his mother hen role quite seriously lately. He’d probably been worried they would say the wrong thing, or maybe even trigger her somehow by casually bringing up Moriarty or something along those lines.

               Their friends were smart though, and she was sure they would’ve done just fine on their own. Nevertheless, she decided to be flattered. After all, everyone had gone to such trouble with this party and keeping it a surprise. They obviously cared about her, and they were trying to make amends. That counted for something.

               “Thank you, everyone,” she told the group. “I’m a little overwhelmed. I’m not sure what to say.”

               Sherlock looked worried for a moment, but when she smiled at him, he relaxed, but only slightly.

               “I was definitely hurt by—well, by _everything_ that went on this past year. I’m still recovering. I won’t lie to you, it’s still going to take me some time. I’ll want to talk to each of you one-on-one, eventually. It’s not that I’m mad, I’m just…disappointed. Hurt. A little confused, maybe.”

               “We understand, Joan,” Captain Gregson said.

               Joan nodded, and she hoped he was right. She hoped they _did_ all understand. She didn’t want to hold on to her past anger and frustration with them, but she also didn’t want to just gloss over the past half year and pretend that everything was completely okay again. It would only set her recovery farther back if she lied to herself and repressed her true feelings.

               “I still care about all of you,” she continued, “And I still consider you my friends. I just ask for your patience in the next few months while I process through everything. While I can’t pretend that everything is 100 percent okay right now, I think we can work toward it. Together.”

               She smiled at them. She could practically see them heave a collective sigh of relief.

               “In the meantime,” she said, “Let’s enjoy this party!”

               “Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, buzzing with excitement once again. “Who’s hungry?” He began to lead them down the hall to the kitchen. “I made all of Joan’s favorite foods. One might even say—it was the doctor’s orders!”

               Everyone groaned.

               Joan hung back for a moment, hiding a smile as she watched her friends follow Sherlock into the kitchen. She felt…happy. It was _good_ to see everyone again. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been together like this. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this good. It almost hurt, in a way, because it was painful to think how long it’d been. Even so. Seeing all her friends gathered again, and seeing Sherlock so happy, was all she could wish for and more. Her heart swelled a little. Everything was going to be fine. _She_ was going to be fine.

               “Joan?” Sherlock appeared in the hallway again. “Everyone’s waiting for you.” He took a few steps closer. “Are you okay?” His brow was furrowed in worry.

               “Yes,” she said, and she meant it. She followed him down the hallway into the kitchen full of light, laughter, and love.

…

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW what a labor of love this story was! I can't believe it took me over a year to finish it--yikes! I definitely learned my lesson though--never start posting a story until I've already completed it! :o 
> 
> Thank you a thousand times over to all the wonderful people who left comments and gave me kudos--you helped inspire me to stick with it and finish this story. :) And a special thanks to RedCave and JeanJavert--without your support, this story wouldn't have been finished either. <3
> 
> Thank you for reading! :) I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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